


In Love And War

by lovemyway (vesper93)



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, Betrayal, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, History, Hundred Years War - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Intrigue, Love, M/M, Medieval History, Oral Sex, Politics, Rating May Change, Sex, Slow Burn, War, War violence, hostage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:15:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 86,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25389655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesper93/pseuds/lovemyway
Summary: It's the fourteenth century; the century of the apocalypse - there has already been famine, war, and plenty of death. The four horseman have been seen on the horizon, by those who have the sight. Armie, or Lord Armand Berkeley, known as the Hammer for his strength on the battlefield, is in the retinue of Edward III as it burns its way across Northern France, the French army in pursuit. They are to meet on the bloody field at the Battle of Crecy. But what happens when Armie takes a young French Lord as his prisoner? He thought he always knew what was right and wrong; good and evil; ally and enemy - but will those perspectives change as he gets to know his prisoner?
Relationships: Armie Hammer/Original Female Character(s), Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 561
Kudos: 322





	1. Crécy

**Author's Note:**

> Heeyyyyyy, 
> 
> Soooo, I have at least 3 other stories on the go at the moment, or at least that are uncompleted. I have had this idea in my head for weeks, and I just had to begin to get it down on paper (sort of). It's obviously completely whacky, and completely AU... but just stick with me on this one for a bit, okay? Medieval history is my jam (I did my BA and MA in it!), so to plonk Timmy and Armie in the middle of it is super exciting for me. 
> 
> I have tried to be accurate as possible, where I can, but there will be plenty of "historical license" within this story. I will also provide historical notes at the bottom of each chapter (like I did with Into Darkness). 
> 
> Notes are here for chapter one (as they appear in every chapter if I do it at the end notes for Ch. 1). 
> 
> Historical Notes: 
> 
> 1) The Battle of Crecy was a culmination of nearly two months of campaigning by Edward III in Northern France, as he tried to assert his "claim" to the French throne, through his mother (conveniently ignoring that the French bloodline passed over any female claimants). It was one of the first major battles of the Hundred Years War.  
> 2) The longsword was the preferred weapon for knights in the fourteenth century.  
> 3) The English longbow was the ultimate weapon at the beginning of the Hundred Years War, and was utterly devastating when wielded the way it was used at Crecy. It is estimated by historians that up to half a million arrows could have been fired during that battle (average of 6 per minute*15 minutes*5000 archers).  
> 4) The Genoese crossbowmen in the French army were mercenaries, paid for their services. When their numbers were decimated by the English archers, they turned to flee. Many of them were cut down by French cavalry for their attempt to leave the field.
> 
> Anything else you might want to know... ask away!
> 
> Let me know what you think! xxx  
> I hope you enjoy it; 
> 
> V  
> xx

_August, 1346, North-Eastern France_

Camp was meagre that night, despite their numbers, the warming fires were few and far between. Tents were pitched in a hurry, hasty cloth covering a basic frame to provide shelter for that night alone. It was only needed for one night, as this would be the only night they were intending to spend in this place. The French Army was approaching, and battle would be joined on the morrow. The forest and town of Crecy were on the right of the English forces, a down sloping hill to their face, with boggy ground beyond that. It had been raining for some days, and the River Mave that they had followed to this point was swollen and fast flowing. Tomorrow it would probably run red; hopefully with French blood, not that of English men.

Armie was sat on a short stool outside of his own tent. He looked to his left as he heard someone approach, laying down his handheld whetstone on the ground next to him. One of his squires was standing a few metres off.

‘My Lord?’

‘Yes, Johnson?’

‘The King is holding a war council, and requests your presence in his tent,’ said the squire.

Armie nodded, not bothering with a reply; he did not need to. The only answer he would give would be an affirmative, as he wasn’t going to disobey a direct order from the King, whether or not he had used the word “request” when he asked the squire to bring him to the table.

He stood up, sheathing his longsword in its ornate scabbard. Tomorrow it would hang from his waist, waiting to taste French flesh. It was just over a metre in length, double-edged, with a two handed hilt, and weighed just over 3lbs. The longsword his father had gifted him the day that he had been knighted by the King. It was customary for the son of a Lord to receive a knighthood before he took up his lordly title on the day that God decreed. It was not his only blade; he had another, a shorter sword, which was used at closer range, and had a pointed tip, rather than an edged blade. It was used for finding gaps in plate armour; between the shoulder plate, and a neck guard, or under the arm. A heavy edged blade was useful against chain mail, but against plate, he was more likely to notch his blade than to do much damage.

He headed in the direction of the King’s tent, not too far from his own. All the Lord’s tents were gathered close to the King’s, with the rank and file men further out, trying to find whatever bit of dry ground they could to throw down their bed rolls and snatch whatever sleep they could. The sentries outside the King’s tent admitted him, by pushing the cloth back and allowing him in. The King’s tent was, of course, more lavish than any others. Furs were on the floor, and a settle held the King’s blankets and bedroll for the night. He would not sleep upon the floor like a common man.

‘Ah, my Lord Berkeley,’ the King looked up from his cushioned seat from behind the table which a hand drawn map of the local area was sprawled. It wasn’t detailed; it didn’t have to be. All it did was illustrate some of the terrain around the area, to shed some light on what they may face come the morrow.

‘Your Grace,’ he said, making a short bow from the waist in the King’s direction. The King was only a little older than he, and had all the signs of a man in the prime of his life. When he was stood, he towered over most of his men at something close to six foot. Not Armie, who had several inches on him, something that the King was quite prepared to make fun of him for. It didn’t matter if the King was six foot or four; none of it would matter if tomorrow’s battle were not won. He would end up face down in the mud, with the French King claiming the crown from his helmet with a crow of glory. Likely Armie’s own corpse would be somewhere nearby if that were to be the case. There would be no point fleeing before the French cavalry, if all it were to get him was an appointment with the headsman, sometime in the near future.

‘Scouts report that we are heavily outnumbered by the French alone, and with their Genoese crossbowmen as well…’

‘Not exactly known for their courage,’ Lord de Courtenay, with a grin in the direction of Lord de Bohun, who had spoken first. The King chuckled despite the gravity of the situation.

‘It matters not, for we are outnumbered either way,’ said the King, ‘But we have the advantage of the high ground here, I do not plan to lose it.’

‘What is the plan for the men, Your Grace?’ Edward, the King’s son spoke up. He had yet to take off his plate, which shone black in the firelight. It wasn’t from nowhere, that he received his moniker from the other men.

The King looked across at his eldest son, who had the fervour of battle in his eyes. He was very young, and despite having joined with the enemy several times in small skirmishes before now, this would be the first pitched battle of any magnitude he would see. The King knew that he was ready for what would come in the morning.

‘Have the longbowmen form up in five blocks, four on the flank, one in the centre. The men at arms slightly back, but amongst the archers,’ said the King, ‘All men are to be dismounted, with one block of men at arms with me covering the retreat if necessary. My Lord Warwick, you will be with my son in the vanguard.’

‘Yes, Your Grace,’ said Lord Warwick with a curt nod, glancing across at his young prince.

‘The rest of you, take your men, divide between the vanguard and the main army for position,’ said the King, ‘We will let the French come to us; the hill will provide sufficient protection from any cavalry charge. The uneven ground will make the horses stumble; and our archers will take care of the rest.’

There was a murmur of agreement. They all believed in the power of their longbowmen, but they had not been tested in the way that they would be tested tomorrow. This would truly test their mettle.

‘Quartermaster?’ said the King, looking over his left shoulder.

‘Yes, Your Grace?’ the Earl of Northampton stepped up.

‘See that all the longbowmen have three quivers each at their disposal,’ said the King.

‘Your Grace,’ he agreed with a curt nod.

The King stood up then, and they all took a step back, ‘My Lords; your men are to be formed up an hour before dawn. I invite you all to join me to hear Mass an hour before then, here with my chaplain. You’re dismissed.’

A murmured ‘Your Grace’ echoed around the tent, as the men took their leave. Armie was one of the first to leave, as he had been one of the last ones to join the council, such as it was, and therefore was closest to the exit. The King had already known what his plan was to be, he just wanted to communicate it to the rest of them. He was a seasoned warrior, and they were a seasoned army. No long council was needed.

Armie returned to his own tent, waving aside the attentions of a whore who bared her breasts at him as he strode passed, hoping to earn a quick coin. She made a tch’ing noise with her tongue, and turned to try her luck with whoever was next. Wherever the army went; whores would follow. It was good coin to be made from all the men who were miles away from home, and had been gone for many months. Maybe she’d find a place in the Prince’s bed tonight; he was known to have a proclivity for female attention, despite being merely sixteen years old.

Armie reached his own tent; a sentry of his own standing guard outside. He ducked inside with a murmur in his direction. His own bedroll lay on the floor at the back, his body squire and sergeant-at-arms found their space towards the front of the flimsy cloth covering. He communicated the King’s orders to them in English, as that was the language that most of the common men spoke these days. His squire spoke French, but the sergeant probably only knew a few words here and there. Once finished, he dismissed them for the night, before he curled himself up in his blanket, only his overcoat on the ground next to him. He would need to wake in only a handful of hours, rouse himself ready to fight with only a meagre breakfast and little rest. He turned over, murmured a prayer in the direction of the sky, and tried to let sleep take him.

**

An hour before dawn and he was standing on the ridge, looking down to where battle would be joined before the morning was done. He could see the French masses approaching; the fleur-de-lis banner fluttering in the wind. At the front the Genoese crossbowmen came, their own insignia of orange and green flying amongst them. He was in the second block of men-at-arms, standing with his own men around him. His banner carrier was by his side, holding the insignia of the Lords of Berkeley in his hand. He looked around; everyone’s faces were set in a grim impassive mask, waiting to see what daybreak would bring. The longbowmen were a little down from their positions, covering them on the flank, protected themselves by sharpened stakes, each with three quivers of arrows. Their faces were equally grim; their clothes sodden by the siling rain.

Armie glanced further back up the slope, to where he could see the King’s banners. The company around the King was standing in front of the supplies, and where the horses had been left as the whole army had been ordered to dismount before forming up. They would be used by the King and his company, in the event that the King were to try and flee for his life, if such a thing were possible.

Time slid on by, as the approaching army marched forward step by step, becoming clearer with every moment. It didn’t take them long to form up, such as their formation was. To Armie it simply looked like one long column, with the crossbowmen in front. They only needed to come a little closer, and then they would be in range. The King knew it too.

‘Prepare!’ came the bellowed order from behind, repeated down the lines. The archers all drew their arrows, holding one knocked in position against the grip, another held against the back of the bow, ready to be instantly drawn when the first was fired. The best archers could fire ten arrows a minute, and with over 5,000 of them in the English army, that was quite an amount in a short space of time. He could see the Genoese preparing to fire, but he wasn’t in the least bit worried, as he was well out of range.

‘Draw!’

The longbowmen drew their bows, pointing skyward, so that when let loose, their arrows would fly the furthest distance; especially as the wind was behind them. Their arrows would travel far further than the bolts wielded by the crossbowmen could ever reach.

‘Loose!’

A rain of hell broke loose within the next second, as thousands of arrows flew to block out the burgeoning light of the sky. Chaos reigned down below as the arrows landed in amongst the crossbowmen, killing many and alarming the rest. They tried to advance further under orders, a few shots coming back, but doing little damage as most fell short of the English lines. He could hear bellowed orders coming from within the French army, but over this distance, he couldn’t make out the words that were spoken. He could see the French cavalry pushing through the lines of their own archers, trying to reach the front so that they could charge forward in the manner that they always did. His visibility wasn’t all that good through the rain, and he couldn’t make out the French King’s banners from where he was stood.

He watched impassively as hundreds and hundreds of men died under the rain of English arrows. They didn’t stand a chance, and they knew it. The Genoese lines broke and they turned to flee, only minutes after the arrows had begun to fly. There was further chaos as the French cavalry began to attack the fleeing Italians; cutting them down as they ran, screaming of cowardice, seemingly forgetting in which direction their actual enemy lay. In all of this, the English arrows continued to fall, killing man and horse alike. Soon the air was rent with the cries of dying men and the screams of panicked or injured horses. Then the French rallied and they began to charge; a traditional cavalry charge for which they were known. The archers could only repel so much, so the men-at-arms stepped forward, swords ready to engage. Armie stepped up with his own men, as the longbowmen continued to fire over their heads. The vanguard was the first block to join the melee, and grunts and yells of fighting men joined the shouts and screams of the dying.

In the end he did not meet steel with steel in that first charge, as it was repelled by the vanguard, commanded by the Prince and the Lord Warwick. The second charge met much the same fate; many of the French falling before they even reached the English lines. The dead and dying began to interrupt the charge in the land between the two armies, cavalry having to pick their way through their fallen companions, or run over those that yet lived.

He wondered if he would actually meet any Frenchman in battle today, as the archers and the vanguard repelled each cavalry charge before they could get close enough. It seemed as if Lord Suffolk got tired of waiting, and leading their block a little further down the hill, he hastened to join the fray. Armie’s own men were within the block, and he had no choice but to follow, his colours still flying by his side. A screaming milieu sprung up around him, and the first of his enemies ran out of the midst, his shorter sword raised to kill.

His mind went blissfully black, as it always did in the midst of a fight. The only thing he knew was the steel, alive in his hand, and the thrum of his own heartbeat, deep within his chest. He could only rely on the strength of his own arm, and the strength of that of the men around him. Nothing else mattered, and nothing else he knew, apart from that clash of steel, and that pounding in his ears. He yelled out in shock when a sword clattered down on the plate near his neck. Luckily it did not meet the join, but it still made his brain rattle in his head. He turned to join steel with his attacker, beating the man down with only a few swings of his heavier blade, cleaving him from shoulder to groin with one particular swing a huge amount of strength behind the swing. He had no moment to even contemplate that horror, as he withdrew his blade, and turned to continue the fight.

The day was passed noon, he guessed, when there was a break in the fighting. He looked up from his work, for work it was, to see the French army practically broken, most of them in full retreat. Some of the English men-at-arms were starting to break their lines, to push on in pursuit of their enemies, a bloodlust in their eyes and in their hearts.

‘Stay on the hill!’ yelled the King, ‘Stay on the hill!’

The order was repeated throughout the army, urging the English soldiers to remain on the higher ground, to pull them back, and to not give into temptation to pursue the remains of the French army across the boggy ground. They would be easy pickings for the remainder of the cavalry if they gave up the advantage they had. He wiped the back of his hand across his brow, scanning his eyes across the men around him; it looked as if they were all accounted for, but he would need his sergeant-at-arms to provide a full listing of all the names of his company when they returned to camp. It was clear the victory was theirs, and there would be no further attacks from the French army today. They were utterly routed.

‘Victory! We have victory!!’ the call of the King’s voice; echoing across the field. Armie spat in the mud, his mouth filled with bile that he only noticed now that he had a moment to breathe. His sword had blood on it, still bright red due to its freshness. There was no grass nearby, as it was all trampled and destroyed. His squire would clean it, and then take it to the smith to see if any repairs were needed. But that was for another time, and for another moment. He turned his back on the field, and headed beyond the reserve lines to where he had left his horse. There would be celebrations to be had tonight. Whether he would partake or not, would be another matter. All he wanted right now, was to return to his tent and remove his bloodied armour; to wash the grime of battle from his face, and then to find his own companies chaplain, and lead his men in a Mass of thanks, for the victory that God had delivered to them today.


	2. Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘A Marquis’ son…’ he mused, ‘I wonder if he’d pay a pretty penny to have you back safe and sound?’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Glad you enjoyed the first chapter. I'm posting this one up now (on a Wednesday) and I _hope_ that I will be able to update this once a week on a Wednesday. I say that it is a _hope_ , as I know myself and know how crap I am at keeping to schedules. So we shall see. 
> 
> Anyway, on with the chapter! Please let me know what you think! It means the absolute world to me to hear what you think. 
> 
> I have downgraded the rating from 'E' to 'M' but it might go back up again. I never know where to pitch my stories. Eventually this will be just as smutty as the rest, but it's not gonna be "extreme" so I guess that just makes it an 'M'? Honestly not a clue. 
> 
> Love 
> 
> V  
> xxx

The day following the battle was clear, and most of the soldiers were wandering the camp in their shirtsleeves and jerkins. There was no threat from the bedraggled French army today, as their forces were utterly broken, so there was no need for most – other than the sentries – to don their mail and their plate. There were many French dead still lying on the field, and crows had been circling overhead since the living had left the area in the afternoon yesterday, to return to their camp two miles hence. Thankfully the wind was still blowing from the North, so the stench of battle and death was yet to drift into the camp. The King had ordered the wounded French be killed where they lay, saying that the army had no capacity to guard hundreds of prisoners on their journey back across Northern France, especially given what his future plans were. It was very poor chivalry, but given the other atrocities that the English army had inflicted whilst they had been on this soil, it certainly wasn’t considered to be out of character. Armie hadn’t partaken in much of the brutality that he had seen going on around him. He was here because the King commanded it, and he was loyal to his King. The rape and pillage of the French countryside did not interest him, beyond the success of the King’s aims.

They would be making for Calais within days, as the King had always made it known that the taking of the town was one of his goals. And now it would be within their grasp; or at least it should be. The French Army would be unable to relieve the city, and it would fall into their hands, hopefully with relative ease. A port for the English on French soil would be a boon indeed. A place for them to land men and supplies, not to mention trade with the rest of the continent being made that much easier. Highest in the King’s mind, of course, was that it would provide a place for him to launch the remainder of his campaign against the French, and secure the crown that he saw as rightfully his.

It was after breakfast, and Armie was feeding his horse grain from the palm of his hand. There were plenty of stable-hands and squires in the army to see to the animals’ welfare, but he liked to spend time with his stallion himself, finding a calm in the animal’s presence. Helios, so named because of the white sunburst on the top of his nose, was one of his favourite companions within the camp. He reached to scratch behind the animal’s inky black ears, causing him to wicker and nudge at Armie with his velvety nose. He grinned, and kissed him gently on his soft muzzle in response. Helios was known to have a bit of a bad temper when he wanted to (and had kicked or bitten several stable lads to make it known), but he had never shown any ire towards Armie in the slightest. He had been on campaign with him before, when they had fought in Scotland a few years previously, so was well seasoned to the travails of being an active war horse.

A few moments later and the call of nature drew him away from the stabling area, and into the woods that flanked the camp. The King kept good order within his camp, and had ordered that every man must walk at least fifty paces from the tents in order to take a piss, and a hundred paces to take a shit. Armie paced his way away from the camp, before unlacing his breeks and taking his prick out in order to piss against a tree. He sighed as he relieved himself, ignoring the chill of the breeze across his bare arse.

His ears pricked up as he heard a twig snap behind him, and his hand went to the five inch knife that he kept in his boot, a weapon he carried with him at all times, as he tucked himself away with the other. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end a moment later. Not a moment too late, and he dodged to his right, a knife whirling past his ear, right where the juncture of his neck and throat had been a second or two earlier. His dodge had put him slightly behind his would-be assailant and he grabbed the arm with the knife, and his shoulder at the same time. The man cried out in pain as he twisted his shoulder at an unnatural angle. Armie shoved the man to the ground, where he let out a loud “ooof” as he hit the floor, all of the wind knocked out of him. A moment later, and Armie was sitting on his chest, his dagger across the man’s throat.

‘ _Je me rends!_ ’ the man shouted less than a second later, ‘ _Je me rends!’_ before Armie had the mind to cut his throat. His hand was stilled, but he did not move from his position on the man’s chest, not allowing him to move more than an inch. He was far far slighter than Armie, so was unable to move his heavy bulk one way or another with his struggling. Armie took in his torn French colours, his dirt streaked face, and the youth of his look.

‘Now what am I to do with you?’ Armie mused aloud, unmoving. His King had explicitly said that he was not taking prisoners from this battlefield, and it was clear that the man squirming beneath him was a young Frenchman, from the defensive army late of the retreating King Philip IV. And yet, the man had cried out his surrender, despite his rash action in attempting to attack him. He could just kill him, leave him in the woods, and nobody would be any the wiser. His body would just be one among the thousands of other Frenchmen who were rotting in these lands. But something stayed his hand; perhaps it was his overt sense of honour. There would be no reward, and no purpose, to killing this man. He would be killing for killing’s sake, and that was something that his morality did not seem to be able to countenance.

He looked at the man beneath him properly, now that his heart rate was beginning to return to normal from the near attempt on his life. He had a dark cloud of hair, curled in a foppish French style about his elfin like ears. His face looked young and angled, all pale skin and the occasional light freckle, which spoke of time in the army underneath the sun. He wasn’t a peasant that was for sure. His skin was far too unmarked for such an occupation. He was clearly some kind of well born young man, with notions of grandeur at taking the life of an Englishman, even if it was whilst he was taking a piss.

‘What is your name?’ he said in French, unmoving from his position. The man did not speak for a moment, his lips remaining tight closed, twisted in an expression of extreme distaste.

‘Or I could just kill you,’ he threatened, moving his dagger back to the young man’s throat, from where he had let it relax closer to his shoulder. The metal bit into the soft skin beneath his jaw, drawing a thin line of blood, along the length of his blade.

‘Timothée Chalamet-Aubert,’ he gasped, ‘Son of the Marquis de Bretagne!’

‘A Marquis’ son…’ he mused, ‘I wonder if he’d pay a pretty penny to have you back safe and sound?’

Timothée twisted his head to the side and spat on the ground next to the pair of them. Armie slapped him around the face for insolence, causing him to cry out. He moved to the side a moment later, but kept a knee pinned on the younger man’s belly, rendering him still unable to move and gasping for breath.

‘Well, Timothée Chalamet-Aubert,’ he said, making up his mind, ‘You are my prisoner now, to dispose of as I see fit.’

Technically he hadn’t taken him from the battlefield, so he was not breaking the King’s edict on prisoners in that particular respect. He had nothing with which to secure the man, other than the thin leather belt he wore to tie his jerkin across his shirt. He untied it then, and flipping the boy – for him seemed little more than that, perhaps twenty if he were a day, he would ask later – over roughly so that he was face down in the dirt, causing him to gasp out in indignation, his expletives muffled by the mud in his mouth. Armie cared not for the noise, and roughly drew the man’s hands together, tying them tightly together, before he dragged him to his feet. Timothée gasped in a breath from where he had been unable to for the moments he had been face down in the earth, spitting dirt on the ground.

‘And might I have the pleasure of knowing the name of my captor?’ said Timothée acidly once his mouth was clear, looking up at him.

‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ said Armie equally as acerbically, ‘I forgot myself and the pleasantries of our station when you were attempting to cut my throat.’ He made a sarcastic bow in the direction of his prisoner, ‘Lord Armand of Berkeley and the Western Marches, at your service, _milord_.’

Timothée didn’t say anything in response, other than bowing his head slightly curtly at him, despite his bound hands and muddied face there was still a ridiculous dignity to his poise. Armie took him by the shoulder, and roughly guided him back to camp, and back toward his own tent, where he would find his men.

‘Sergeant!’ he called out, knowing the man would be somewhere nearby, and well within earshot.

‘Yes My Lord?’ the man appeared in front of him a few moments later, hastily wiping his mouth of the dregs of small beer he had been drinking when he was called.

‘This man,’ he said, pulling the Frenchman to stand a little in front of him, ‘Is my prisoner. See that he is treated with dignity and respect; see that he is fed as well. If any harm should befall him, I shall hold you personally responsible.’

The sergeant looked carefully at the black-haired man stood before him, ‘I thought the King had said -,’

‘I know what the King has said, but I wasn’t about to murder him in cold blood,’ said Armie, ‘So, for now, he is my prisoner, and he _will_ be treated with dignity and respect in my camp, do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes My Lord,’ said the sergeant, bowing curtly, before taking the prisoner by the arm and leading him within the camp, towards one of the tents. Armie watched him go somewhat dispassionately, before heading towards his own tent, where his squire would hopefully have found him some food for the midday meal. Then the King would hold a council, to determine their next course, and how the army would proceed to Calais.

**

Armie was just ducking out of the King’s tent from the evening council, when a messenger appeared at his elbow, having clearly been waiting for some time for him to appear, ‘My Lord Berkeley?’

‘Yes?’ he said curtly. He was tired, and he really didn’t want any more summons this way or that to contend with that evening. All he wanted was the meagre sleep that his bedroll would provide him for the evening.

‘A letter has arrived, from your Lady sister, My Lord’ he said, holding out the ragged looking vellum that had clearly taken many weeks to arrive.

‘Thank you,’ he said, and handed the man a gold coin from his purse. He would have travelled a great distance, and at all speed, to deliver the letter. He didn’t move from the spot as he broke the seal, and quickly ran his eyes over the letter; it was only short, but that was all that was needed to convey the message it contained. His heart seemed to slow down as he read the elegant French of his sister’s handwriting, and his mouth went dry.

_Dear Brother,_

_God’s blessing to you and to the endeavour upon which you find yourself. I fear this letter does not bring you glad tidings, and I beg that you return home as soon as the King is able to give you leave. We have need of you. Our dearest brother Edward is dead. His disease progressed quickly this spring, and God saw fit to take him into his hands just after Midsummer’s Day. As such, I am now addressing the Lord of Berkeley, Carlisle, and the West Marches. Edward is buried in the chapel._

_We await your instruction, but urge you to return with all possible haste. God bless the King,_

_Your sister; Annie._

It wasn’t often that he was stunned, but here he was, utterly taken aback by this letter from his sister. She was Annie to him, the Lady Anne Berkeley to less familiar acquaintances. He knew that he probably shouldn’t be surprised; his brother had been sick for many years, and with no heir of his own, the estates and titles were to pass to him in the event of his death. He just didn’t expect it to come quite so soon. The last time he’d seen his brother, before he left with the King, he’d seemed well enough. The same rattle to his breath, belying his affliction of the lungs, had been there, as it had been for the past years. But that was no different to what he was used to. And now his big brother was dead.

He didn’t quite know what to do, so he dithered on the spot momentarily, the letter clutched in his hand. After a few moments of thought and hesitation he decided that the best thing was to try and do as his sister bid. But for that he needed his King’s permission. He couldn’t just up and leave the camp under his own volition, for that was nothing less than the actions of a deserter. He turned back, the sentry outside the King’s tent was regarding him steadily, clearly wondering why he had stood for so long without direction.

‘I need to speak with His Grace,’ he said, ‘Can you ask if he will receive me again, despite the hour?’

The sentry nodded, ducking inside the King’s tent again. He heard murmurs from inside, and after a few moments the sentry reappeared, ‘The King will see you.’

Armie nodded his thanks, and ducked his head inside. The King was sitting on a low stool, his barber surgeon attending to the tidiness of his beard, and the line of his hair. He had a towel about his shoulders, and his boots up on a settle. He seemed unperturbed by the informality of the situation, so Armie made nothing of it either.

‘What is it, Armie?’ the King addressed him by his preferred forename amongst friends, of which he did count the King one. Usually this occurred when they were in their cups, on high days and holy days, but in the small hours before bed, dressed in their shirtsleeves, seemed as good as time as any other.

‘My brother is dead Your Grace,’ he said, deciding there was little point in any form of preamble. The King grunted his understanding a moment later, his eyebrows raised towards his hairline.

‘My sister has written to me, asking that I return home,’ he said, ‘I’ve come to ask that I may be given leave to return to England, to secure my position, and to ensure the defences along the border.’

‘Hmmmm,’ said the King, still not really reacting one way or another, ‘Your brother, despite his condition, did essential work in the marches, keeping those Scots heathens in check. News of his death will travel quickly.’

‘Yes, Your Grace,’ Armie agreed, knowing that this is why his sister had written to him with the tone of urgency in her letter.

‘You have my leave,’ said the King after a moment, ‘I will be sore to lose you and your men, Armie, but your offices in England are needed more than the work you would do for me here. I would that you could stay with us to see the taking of Calais, but I understand that that will take too long.’

‘Thank you Your Grace,’ he said, ‘I will take my leave as soon as I am able. If it pleases your Grace, I will leave my sergeant at arms, and the bulk of my men, at your disposal. I would rather that we travel light and swift, and a large contingent of men would simply slow us down. I will take passage from Sluys, and to do that with five men will be far easier than with fifty.’

‘You’re right,’ said the King, ‘They can join with my son’s regiment.’

A King never said thank you, and it didn’t surprise Armie in the least that he made no other note that he agreed to leave behind his men.

‘You may go,’ said the King, waving his arm, ‘God be with you, Lord Berkeley.’

Armie bowed deeply, before he turned to leave, and was halfway out of the tent when the King spoke again, ‘And Armie?’

‘Yes, Your Grace?’ he said turning back. The King was looking back at him over his left shoulder, a curious look on his face, somewhere between annoyance and grim respect.

‘Take your prisoner with you when you leave,’ he said, and with that waved his hand in dismissal. Armie bowed curtly once again, despite the fact that King was no longer looking in his direction, and left the tent quickly, before anything further could be said. As he strode back to his own tent, he half smiled to himself, he should have known that the King would know about his prisoner, despite it only being mere hours since he had materialised. The King ran a disciplined army, and knew everything that was going on his camp. It was unlikely that the son of French Marquis would go unnoticed for long.

‘Matthews?’ he called, as he approached his own tent. His senior squire - a young man of nineteen - appeared swiftly from within.

‘My Lord?’ he asked.

‘We are to leave in the morning,’ he directed, ‘Pick five good men to travel with us; we travel light. I wish to be at the coast in two days. The rest of the men are to join with the Prince of Wales and his regiment.’

‘My Lord?’ he asked again, a confused look gracing his face.

‘We’re going home Matthews,’ he said, ‘Back to England.’

Matthews couldn’t disguise the look of joy that crossed his face at the news of home, but quickly schooled himself into neutrality once again.

‘Be ready to leave after dawn,’ commanded Armie, turning away. Then he remembered something, and turned back before Matthews could go about any business.

‘Matthews, the prisoner is coming with us. Be sure he’s ready. You will need to find him a horse,’ Armie said curtly, nodding at his squire. Matthews nodded in agreement, and turned to leave. Armie entered his own tent, to gather the minimal personal effects that he had brought with him on campaign. He would ask a camp messenger for materials to compose a response to his sister at first light. He would send it on at speed ahead of them, so that they knew to expect their return. Now that his mind was made up, and a formation of a plan had taken shape, he allowed a modicum of happiness to enter his mind. He was going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes
> 
> 1\. The English followed a campaign of scorched earth in Northern France, the same way they had in Scotland some years before. Much of the countryside was destroyed, towns were raised, and anybody of fighting age was killed.  
> 2\. Je Me Rends = I surrender (at least that's what google translate says it means!).  
> 3\. I have made up Armie and Timothee's titles, although there are parts of truth in each of them. I didn't want to complicate things by trying to follow a real line of nobility, so neither of these families (Berkeley or Chalamet-Aubert) exist in this particular context. 
> 
> Anything else, just ask me! 
> 
> xxx


	3. Over Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie learns more about the prisoner in his custody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> It's f*cking Wednesday! (If you watch Peaky Blinders then that will make sense to you... if not... well, go watch it 'cause it's ace). 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter - let me know what you think; your comments and feedback mean the absolute world to me. They give me a little squee of happiness when I see that people have taken the time to comment <3\. 
> 
> There's no historical notes for this one, as I don't _think_ there's anything that especially needs clarifying. If I'm wrong and there's something historical related that doesn't make a whole lot of sense, let me know! 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> V  
> xxxx

Chapter Three

Dawn came early and warm the following day, as Armie strode from his tent pulling on his leather riding gloves as he walked. They were worn from years of use, and he would probably need a new pair at some point soon, before these were rubbed through. Matthews had brought Helios around, ready saddled and pawing at the ground, aware that he was going somewhere, and muscles bunched with the excitement of that knowledge. The men who were coming with him were ready mounted, their small amount of supplies were tacked to the sides of their horses, along with their swords, trying to weigh them down as little as possible. He took the reigns from Matthews and looked around, noticing a distinct absence.

‘Where’s the prisoner?’ he said.

Matthews shifted from foot to foot, ‘I couldn’t find him a horse My Lord. There are none to be spared.’

Armie frowned at him, ‘And so, you were just going to leave him behind?’

Matthews looked a little sheepish, before shrugging in the insolent way of youth, ‘He’s only a Frenchman.’

Armie stepped up to him then, drawing himself up to his full height and breadth and glowered down at the youth, ‘Matthews?’

The young squire seemed to shrink under his gaze before he stuttered, ‘My apologies, My Lord. I will bring the prisoner at once.’

‘Yes,’ said Armie, ‘You will. And he better be unharmed. Otherwise on your head be it. It is a good thing that we have to make good time, otherwise I would tan your arse in front of the rest of the men. You may be a man grown, but you’re still my squire.’

Matthews blanched pale, and hurried off into the camp. It took a few moments before Matthews returned, tugging the prisoner along behind him. The dark-haired Frenchman looked much the same as he had when Armie had seen him yesterday, except this time his hands were now bound in front of him, and his jacket had disappeared at some point in the intervening hours. His face was schooled to blankness, and there was no flicker of emotion as he looked over at Armie, standing beside Helios.

‘There’s no horse,’ Matthews repeated, as if Armie might not have heard him the first time.

‘Then he will ride with me,’ said Armie, ‘Helios can carry us both.’

Matthews looked surprised at that; Helios was not known for his patience around any other rider apart from Armie. Armie glowered at his squire one last time who scurried backwards, away from the gaze of his irate lord, before he turned to his prisoner.

‘You will ride in front of me,’ he said to him curtly.

‘Where are we going?’ asked the prisoner at once.

‘Well, you are going with me,’ said Armie, ‘That should suffice enough for you.’

‘How am I to stay on?’ asked the prisoner dryly, ‘With bound hands?’

Armie raised an eyebrow in his direction, ‘The same way that any decent horseman stays on; with your thighs.’

With that he jerked his head at Matthews, who stepped forward once again and grabbed the prisoner by the foot to help him mount the large stallion, swinging his leg over the top of the ornate leather saddle. He gripped the pommel as best he could with bound hands, and settled himself into the worn seat. Armie made sure that he was seated securely enough, before swinging himself up behind him, using the stirrup as his aid. He took the reigns, reaching around the slight form of his prisoner. Helios shifted slightly as he noted the more-than-usual weight on his back, but didn’t seem bothered beyond that.

‘Move out,’ he said, looking back at his small retinue. Then the horses began to move off. His sergeant-at-arms, standing by his tent, bowed deeply as he passed. He had his orders, and they would be reunited (with a fat pay purse for any troubles rendered) at home when the King’s business was finished. The horses soon broke free of the last straggled tents on the outskirts of the camp, and they were riding across open French countryside.

As the sun rose in the sky they crossed miles of flat land. At least it wasn’t raining today, as it had been for days at a time since they landed in this country, and the sun was actually quite hot as they rode. They only moved at a gentle trot as any faster would be too much for the horses to keep up for any particular period time. They stopped around mid-morning, about five or so hours after dawn, close to a small stream to give the horses some water, and to break their own fast. Armie dismounted from his horse, and then quickly reached up to lift his prisoner from the saddle as well, depositing him on his feet by Helios’ flank. He ignored the slight grumble of indignation from the man at being manhandled so.

They broke their fast quickly, and allowed the horses a short time to drink and rest a little. Armie finished eating, and then turned to the prisoner, holding out some bread and a pot of ale.

‘Eat,’ he said.

The young man raised his still bound hands, almost resignedly, trying to tug the bread into more manageable pieces whilst not being able to separate his hands more than an inch. Armie twisted around to face him them, and undid his bonds, causing a murmur of concern from Matthews. This didn’t get past the prisoner, who looked across at the young squire.

‘There are five of you,’ he said acerbically in French, ‘What do you think I’m going to do with no weapons against all of you?’

‘It’ll be alright Matthews,’ said Armie, ‘I’ll bind him again before we set off. But he does need his hands to eat.’

‘And hopefully to take a piss when I’m done,’ said the man, ‘Otherwise I might just soil my breeks whilst in the saddle.’

Matthews made a noise of disgust, causing the prisoner to grin. One of the other men in their company grinned, and clapped the prisoner on the shoulder.

‘What’s your name, lad?’ he asked, ‘I can’t be doing with calling you “the prisoner” for the whole journey back home.’

‘Timothée,’ said the young man, after eyeing him for a moment, deciding his interest was genuine.

‘What sort of a name is that?’ asked the man.

‘A French one,’ interjected Armie dryly.

‘Call me Tim,’ said Timothée, ‘If the full name is beyond you.’

‘Aye, and you can call me Duncan,’ he said, ‘This here is James, Henry, and the one with a face like a slapped arse is Benjamin, although he goes by Matthews.’

Matthews punched Duncan the arm, ‘I’ll thank you to keep my name to yourself unless I choose to share it with others.’

‘Worry not Matthews, I do not think our French guest is going to be able to do much with your name,’ said Armie, standing up, ‘Enough lingering, it is time for us to press on.’

‘Are you going to tell me where we’re going yet?’ asked Timothée, ‘As it’s clear we’re not going back to join the army of your king.’

‘We’re going home Frenchman,’ said Matthews bluntly.

Timothée raised his eyebrows at him, ‘Across the channel?’

‘Yes,’ said Armie shortly.

‘It’s where most Englishmen come from,’ said Matthews sarcastically.

Timothée’s face was a picture of shock for a moment, before he schooled it once more into relative blankness. He looked around all the men who he was with, as if for one moment the crazy notion of making a run for it crossed his mind. Armie saw the notion, felt it, as he knew that he would have felt it himself if he was in that position. He couldn’t allow it, clearly, and let his hand just gently rest on the hilt of his knife. Timothée’s eyes flicked down to where he held it, and then the tension seemed to melt out of the line of his shoulders, and the notion of trying to flee left.

‘Can I go for that piss now, before we move on?’ said Timothée pointedly.

Armie grunted in response tilting his head, ‘Henry, go with him.’

‘I’m not very likely to try and run in nothing but my undershirt and breeches,’ said Timothée, annoyed, despite what Armie had just seen.

‘That remains to be seen,’ said Armie pointedly, ‘But you did just try to kill me, only yesterday, so forgive me if I’m not in a very trusting mood.’

Even Timothée seemed to be able to see the logic in this statement, and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Should we tie him again My Lord?’ asked the man nervously, in English, who had been set to accompany him.

‘How would he take a piss if we do that?’ Duncan interjected with a laugh, ‘Unless you want to hold his cock for him!’

Henry blushed furiously, and moved to strike the other man, but Armie grabbed him by the forearm.

‘Men!’ said Armie, tiring of this ribaldry fairly quickly, ‘We may be an informal company whilst we travel swift, but remember that you still serve the house of Berkeley, and I would have it that you behaved so when on duty.’

Duncan cleared his throat, ‘Sorry My Lord.’

Armie didn’t say anything else, knowing it to be unnecessary, and waited for the pair to return from the woods, before mounting up, shoving the Frenchman up in front of him, and leading the party back onto the road.

After they had gone some distance, the Frenchman began to wriggle in front of him.

‘If you keep that up, you’re going to fall off,’ said Armie.

‘Are we to ride the whole way in silence?’ said Timothée, ‘It’s mighty grim, and there’s nothing to look at thanks to what your countrymen have undertaken.’

‘I can’t say I’m in the practice of undertaking much conversation with prisoners,’ said Armie.

‘Well it seems as if I’m going to be in your company for a while, given we are going in the _opposite_ direction to where I would if I had my liberty,’ said Timothée, ‘And I am to be leaving my country against my will.’

‘Which is usually what happens when you are a prisoner,’ said Armie shortly.

‘It’s not something I’ve experienced before,’ said Timothée.

‘Leaving your country?’ said Armie.

‘Being a prisoner,’ said Timothée.

‘Hmmm,’ said Armie, ‘Between you and me, what made for your foolish attempt on my life yesterday, surely you did not think you would actually succeed?’

‘A large amount of thought did not go into it,’ said Timothée honestly, ‘I was alone, you were alone, it was worth a chance. I did not know what to do with myself. I had lost my horse, and my entire retinue had either been killed or scattered to the wind. I had no idea where my king was, or in which direction the army may have gone to attempt a reconvening.’

‘A conundrum,’ said Armie, ‘But even so, attempting my murder was a rash thing to do.’

‘Well I know that now,’ said Timothée, with something of veiled amusement in his voice, ‘It wasn’t my intention to end up bound to your saddle, going to some Godforsaken spit of -,’

‘That is my country you speak of,’ interjected Armie sharply, ‘Watch your tongue.’

The Frenchman fell silent momentarily.

‘Am I allowed to know where exactly we are going?’ he asked after a moment, ‘Other than “to England.”’

‘Would it mean anything to you if I did tell you?’ Armie asked, ‘How much do you know about the geography of my homeland?’

‘Probably as little as you know of the geography of mine,’ said Timothée, ‘Other than the bits you’ve managed to destroy.’

‘I can’t say that I did all of that singlehandedly,’ said Armie, ‘Or any of it, to be honest. It is not the way that I would wage war.’

‘Oh so my captor is an honourable man?’ he said, ‘That’s a relief to know.’

‘Surely you surmised that yesterday when I did not instantly kill you?’ said Armie.

‘Well that is some comfort I suppose,’ said Timothée, he was silent for a moment before speaking again, ‘Why are you leaving? Why are we returning to England when your army is still camped in my homeland?’

‘You do ask a lot of questions, don’t you?’ said Armie, not unkindly.

‘There’s nothing else to do,’ said Timothée with a shrug.

‘We’re going home because my brother is dead,’ said Armie, ‘And I am now Lord of my estates, so it is necessary I take up my responsibilities there.’

‘I see,’ said Timothée, ‘Do you have any other siblings?’

‘A sister, and two younger brothers,’ said Armie, ‘One is squired to the Lord Warwick, the other will go soon, as he’s now old enough to do so. I had others, but they died.’

‘I had many siblings too,’ said Timothée, ‘Now I just have one; a sister. She will be mighty grieved when she learns of my fate.’

‘Hmmm, well perhaps you should have thought about that before trying to cut my throat,’ said Armie grimly, ‘So you are your father’s only son?’

Timothée didn’t speak, realising what he’d given away, and how that would affect his value in the eyes of his captor.

‘I would have found out eventually,’ said Armie, ‘So it’s best you tell me these things.’

Timothée made a little noise of annoyance.

‘How old are you Timothée?’ said Armie, ‘You look young to be in the army.’

‘I am told that often,’ said Timothée, ‘I’m two-and-twenty.’

‘That does surprise me,’ said Armie, ‘I had guessed you were no more than twenty, if that.’

‘And yourself, Monsieur Englishman, how many years have you been on God’s green earth?’

‘I have a few years on you,’ said Armie, ‘But we are of a similar age; I am five-and-twenty.’

‘And continuing with a career in the King’s army?’ said Timothée.

‘Yes, well,’ said Armie, ‘I did not anticipate that I would be on campaign this long. I intended to be home at least a year ago.’

‘Maybe your King should stop trying to take that which does not belong to him,’ said Timothée quietly. Armie made a noise in the back of his throat, and with that conversation died.

**

When they made camp that night it was a small one, their bedrolls clustered around a meagre fire. Two men out of the six kept watch, as there were plenty of brigands and desperate men roaming these lands, desperate for food, desperate for shelter, or for any money that they could come across. It tended to be what happened when a place was utterly destroyed. The men that were left were driven to desperation. It was why, privately, Armie did not hold much with the King’s methods. Yes, it created fear and terror amongst the locals, enough to stop them giving succour to the French army, but it also created martyrs and desperate men, willing to do anything to survive. It made the land a dangerous place.

They rotated throughout the night, with Armie taking the watch in the early hours of the morning. Just because he was the Lord of the party did not mean that he would not take his fair share of the work when it needed to be done. The prisoner was asleep nearby, lying with his hands and feet bound, a blanket they’d found was over one of his legs, but had slipped so that it wasn’t really covering him anymore. Armie reached out to pull it up over him, so that he didn’t catch a chill whilst lying on the ground. The young man shifted as the blanket moved, pulling it in his sleep so that it covered his shoulder.

Armie was momentarily taken by the intimately human gesture of the young man in his sleep. It didn’t matter whether he was French or English, friend or foe, right now he was helpless in his sleep, and he looked oh so young. Armie was reminded that he wasn’t actually _that_ young, and that his looks belied his age, as he’d said. He pulled his own blanket closer around his shoulders. It might be August, but it still drew cold at night, out here in the open, and there was a chilly easterly breeze blowing through the trees.

Tomorrow they would make for Sluys, where a temporary harbour had been established for the English fleet, and to see about buying passage to England on the first ship that would have them. It wasn’t far, just an overnight passage. It would then take at least another week for them to travel north and return home, if not longer if they were delayed on the way. He hoped they would not encounter too much inconvenience. He’d been away from home for long enough now, with only a short visit before coming with the King to France. He should be glad to return. With that he let his thoughts wander, as he gazed out into the darkness of the woods, the light of their sheltered fire only going so far. One hand remained on his sword which lay on the ground by his side, the other holding his blanket close about his body.


	4. In Sight Of The Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘Do English whores not have the pox then?’ said Timothée, after taking a bite of the apple._
> 
> _‘Not that I’ve encountered,’ he said, ‘Although it’s been some years since I’ve had the pleasure.’_
> 
> _‘In its truest form of the word,’ said Timothée, chewing on the flesh of the fruit, ‘You have no wife then?’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> First of all, big thank you to ilovelife19, rosebud4409, Nohe, and LindaMaceMichalik for their comments on this story. It keeps me inspired and motivated to keep going to hear what you guys think about what I'm writing, so thank you so much for that! <3 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter, history notes at the end as always! Mwah! 
> 
> Next week we'll get a few insights into what Timmy thinks about all of this...
> 
> Stay safe and well, 
> 
> V  
> xxxx

‘We will rest here for the night,’ said Armie to his men, ‘See about rooms, and stabling space for the horses.’

They were in the temporary harbour established following the battle of Sluys. Something of a shanty town had sprung up in the months since the battle, and Armie couldn’t help but wonder if a permanent town would end up appearing in this place. It was well on the way towards that at the moment, he supposed. They had found a creaky wooden tavern that had been thrown up in only a few weeks. Armie didn’t expect the night to be overly comfortable. In fact, he didn’t expect to have any particular comfort until they arrived home.

He thought about his room in the keep of his family home, which would no longer be his, of course. He’d be expected to take up the Lord’s chambers, and the rooms that went along with it. His mother and father had lived in those rooms when he was a child, and his brother had had them after that. Many generations of his family had been born and had died in those rooms, something he regarded as slightly disconcerting. He wondered if his things would have been moved from what had formerly been "his" room into those chambers before he arrived home.

Whilst his men went their different ways to see about securing rooms and stabling, he took the prisoner with him down the harbour side. English ships had been coming back and forth since the invasion a few months ago, in order to supply the army encamped in the northern parts of this country. Armie was hoping that he could get passage back on a merchant ship of some sort, hopefully at not too greater cost.

It took him a while to identify a captain on the wharf, but once he did he made a beeline for a man who was directing men about, loading cargo onto a ship that was docked next to the temporary structure of a warehouse. The warehouse didn't look like it would hold out against any particularly aggressive storms, but he figured it served it's purpose in a fashion.

‘Captain?’

The man looked around at him, appraising him and the man with his still-bound hands beside him with raised eyebrows. 

‘Yes?’

‘Lord Armand Berkeley,’ said Armie introducing himself, ‘I wish to buy passage on your ship for myself and my men.’

‘My Lord,’ said the captain, making a short bow, ‘I am Captain Harrington. How many are you?’

‘There are six of us in total, along with six horses,’ he said, ‘What is the name of your ship?’

The Captain frowned a little, ‘I do not think there will be space for all of you. I could perhaps give passage to four men and four horses. The ship I am blessed to sail is the Swallow’s Tail.’

Now it was Armie’s turn to frown, ‘Is there no way that more payment would make room for the final two men and horse?’

The Captain shook his head, ‘I’m sorry my Lord, I have goods that are expected upon my arrival. I cannot not deliver to those that have already paid me.’

‘Do you know of another ship, for the rest of my men, that will be departing?’ he asked cautiously, knowing that if there was another going within the next day or so he might be able to get all six of his men together, and therefore deny this captain any additional payment. The captain knew it too. He looked over Armie’s shoulder at the prisoner, sizing up exactly who he might be carrying. When he clearly decided that Timothée was no threat to himself or to his ship, he shrugged his shoulders and answered.

‘The next supply ship is supposed to arrive within the next four days.’ His voice clearly asked the question whether Armie was planning to ask for passage, or whether he was simply delaying his time. Despite him being a Lord, the captain still had a job to do and a crew to organise, whether or not Armie was going to travel with him, he didn't need to waste time with waylayers.

Armie nodded, ‘I understand Captain. How much will it be for the four of us?’

The captain thought for a moment, ‘15d per man, 5d per horse.’

Armie left his face impassive, even though he knew that the man was overcharging him something fierce. He didn’t really have a choice; he didn’t want to wait for the best part of a week in order to get passage back to England. He reached for his coin purse that was hanging on the front of his belt, and counted out the coins into the palm of the Captain’s hand.

‘We leave on the morning tide,’ said the Captain, putting the money away in his own coin purse, which Armie noted was certainly well on its way to being full, ‘Be on board an hour before.’

Armie nodded in understanding, before turning his back on the captain and striding away, pushing the prisoner a few steps in front of him.

As he was walking back up the wharf, Duncan and Henry met him coming the other way.

‘My Lord?’ said Duncan, ‘Have we passage back to England?’

‘I have managed to secure passage for four of us,’ said Armie, ‘The remaining two will have to follow on the next ship in a few days’ time.’

‘Who will remain behind my Lord?’ said Henry, nervously. For a soldier, he never did have much mettle about him. Despite this, Armie still had a lot of fondness for the mine, as he was the one who had taught him how to shoot a bow when he was younger, and shown him how to hunt hart whilst being as quiet as a mouse in the undergrowth. He didn’t use such a weapon when he was on campaign, as a bow was not a weapon of a knight, other than when he was hunting.

‘Duncan will remain here, with James,’ said Armie, making the decision on the spur of the moment, ‘Henry, you will travel with us, as will Matthews. I will leave the funds with you Duncan, for your room and passage. I will expect to see you in one piece at home, only a few days after us. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, My Lord,’ said Duncan, ‘No delay.’

Armie nodded, ‘Where are Matthews and James?’

Duncan motioned behind them, causing Armie to turn and see the pair walking swiftly along the quayside. Armie didn’t speak to his squire, still making it perfectly plain that he was not yet back in his good graces, given the stunt he tried to pull with the prisoner yesterday morning. He just raised his eyebrows in his direction, asking the question that he wanted the answer to without deigning to speak.

‘I have found a room for yourself my Lord,’ said Matthews, ‘Although it is little more than a lean to, it should suffice to keep off the elements, such as they are at this time of year.’

‘And for the rest of you?’ Armie asked.

‘We will have to suffice with the hayloft above where the horses are to stay for the night,’ said Matthews.

‘Delightful,’ grumbled Duncan. Matthews looked about ready to reach over and try and hit him again, if not for the warning look he got from Armie. He would not stand by and watch his men brawl like ruffians in the street.

‘Show me,’ said Armie, gesturing ahead of him in the direction that the pair had come from, tugging the prisoner with him. Timothée made a noise of annoyance at being pulled too and fro.

‘Can you at least untie me?’ said Timothée in exasperation, ‘I’m not going anywhere. I don’t even really know where I am, other than somewhere on the northern coast.’

‘I’ll untie you when we reach the shelter,’ said Armie, and then turned to Matthews, ‘What food have we left?’

‘Not much,’ said Matthews, ‘There’s some ale in the flasks, but not much to eat. The tavern master will have something.’

‘Hmm,’ said Armie, fishing in his coin purse once again and getting a few pennies out each for the men for supper, ‘See yourself fed and rested. Matthews, Henry, Timothée, and I need to be on board the ship at dawn.’

‘What’s the name of the ship?’ Matthews asked.

‘Swallow’s Tail,’ said Armie, ‘She’s a medium cog, but it’s enough to see us across the water to England.’

Matthews nodded, and then stopped as they came to a very roughly erected wooden building, ‘This is the tavern.’

Armie looked at it, ‘Well you were right about one thing; it really isn’t much more than a lean-to.’

‘Nothing in this town is much more than a lean-to,’ said Duncan jovially, trying to make light of the situation as he always did. Armie looked briefly at the sky; the light was fading, and he wanted to see the men fed and sheltered before it failed completely. He walked purposefully into the shack that stood for the tavern, finding the innkeep behind a makeshift bar. Barrels were propped haphazardly behind it, and trestle tables were lined up in the space around. Some had groups of men sat at them, eating simple fare for their supper. There were no women here at all. The innkeep came over to the side of the bar, and immediately straightened up when he saw that Armie was not a man of common means.

‘Sir?’ he asked, testing out the phrase.

‘Lord Armand Berkeley,’ said Armie shortly by way of introduction, ‘My man came by to see to some about rooms a short while ago.’

‘Yes,’ he said, bowing shortly, ‘There was only one room available – it’s the door to the left at the back. It’s not much My Lord -,’

‘It will suffice,’ said Armie, ‘Thank you innkeep. Can you see that my men are fed?’

‘At once My Lord,’ said the innkeep.

Armie turned back to his men, ‘I will retire now with the prisoner. Matthews and Henry, see that the horses are ready on the ship in good time. Duncan and James, you know what you’re to do?’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ said Duncan.

‘Although I’ll see you before we depart,’ said Armie, ‘Can one of you bring food to the room for the pair of us when you are finished?’

Matthews nodded, and with that Armie turned to his prisoner, tugging him to the back of the room and through the door into what was effectively a straw-floored room with three wooden planks as the walls, a further one as the roof. It had a straw mattress near one of the walls, and enough space for one another person to lie upon the floor, a pisspot (thankfully empty) near the door, and that was it. It was barely even a room, but it would keep the wind blowing from the water off them for the night. Armie took his pack from around his shoulder and put them down on the mattress. He would give Timothée his bedroll for the night, and he would sleep under his overcoat. He didn’t want to use whatever this place passed as a blanket. Yes, he was used to fleas and all manner of wee bugs that he might find in his bed, but he didn’t want to invite _more_ if he could help it.

‘Comfortable,’ was all Timothée said as he stood in the only spare space available.

‘Well there aren’t many castles round and about,’ said Armie, sitting on the mattress, ‘So this will have to do.’

Timothée took the bedroll that was offered to him by Armie’s outstretched hand, between his bound two, and lay it down on the floor as best he could.

‘I will unbind you now,’ said Armie, ‘But you will be bound once again before we sleep.’

Timothée didn’t say anything, but held out his hands almost eagerly. Armie responded by undoing the knots that held his arms closely together. The man rubbed at his wrists when he was free, trying to soothe the redness where the rope had chafed him somewhat.

There was a knock on the door at that moment, and Matthews spoke a greeting through the wooden slats, speaking of the food he brought. Armie opened the door and took the spare rations that his squire was holding out for them. It wasn’t a lot; bread, cheese, some apples, and a small pot of ale, but it would do for the night.

‘Thank you, Matthews. See yourselves to your rest. And no other stops along the way. I shall be mighty displeased if I find that you have been to visit the whorehouse on your rounds tonight. The last thing I want is to take a case of the French pox back to England,’ he said sternly.

Matthews snorted in amusement, and then saw that he was seriously. He dipped a short bow, ‘Yes My Lord, of course. Goodnight then.’

‘Goodnight, Matthews,’ said Armie curtly, and shut the door, turning the key in the lock. Turning around with the hewn wooden tray towards his prisoner once again, he saw he was still standing, waiting to see what food might be coming his way. Timothée was looking at him appraisingly, before he reached out to take one of the apples without first being offered, much to Armie’s chagrin. He knew the prisoner was trying to irritate him, so he didn't say anything in rebuke. 

‘Do English whores not have the pox then?’ said Timothée, after taking a bite of the apple.

‘Not that I’ve encountered,’ he said, ‘Although it’s been some years since I’ve had the pleasure.’

‘In its truest form of the word,’ said Timothée, chewing on the flesh of the fruit, ‘You have no wife then?’

Armie raised his eyebrows at the brazen question before shaking his head, ‘No, I have no wife. Although I suppose that that will not be the case for too long once I return home.’

‘The honourable Lord must have his Lady.’

‘It was always going to be my brother’s calling to have the wife and children, to provide heirs for the title,’ said Armie almost thoughtfully, ‘But now I guess, it’s mine.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Timothée, pausing for a moment before speaking once again, ‘May I have materials so I can write a letter to my father? I wish to tell him that I am alive at least.’

Armie sat back against the wall, surveying him for a moment, before he nodded, ‘Yes, you can write to him. When we reach England, you can send a letter back with the next ship.’

The young man opened his mouth to protest but then shut it again at the look on Armie’s face. 

‘I will write one as well,’ continued Armie, ‘To send alongside it. Laying out some of my terms.’

‘Oh?’ said Timothée snidely, ‘And what terms might those be?’

Armie couldn’t help but grin wolfishly in his direction, ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve thought of them.’

The Frenchman scowled, and hissed out an insult.

‘What was that?’ Armie asked, but not harshly. He knew the other man was like a caged beast that he was enjoying prodding. He would be the same if he were in this situation. He was not going to punish the man over a whispered insult. Any further than that though, direct disobedience or trouble, and he would have to rethink how he behaved towards his prisoner.

‘I said _putain_ ,’ said Timothée, this time loud enough that there was no doubt as to what he said. Armie grinned again, knowing that the man was merely lashing out with his words because he had no other options at his disposal. Armie passed him some more food, which seemed to surprise Timothée given that he’d just insulted him, but he took it anyway, chewing cautiously at the bread and cheese. He didn’t take his eyes off Armie as he chewed, as if he expected the other man to lash out and hit it from his hands or something similar.

Conversation was stilted whilst they finished eating, as the last of the light finally died outside, leaving them in the meagre illumination cast by the couple of candles in the room. Armie took Timothée with him to what passed as the latrines at the back of the building, before returning to their room. He didn't want to utilise the pot until the middle of the night if he had to. The smell would be bad in this enclosed space. His men had already long disappeared.

‘Hands,’ he said to Timothée gruffly when they returned, and the other man had cast off his boots ready to sleep. Armie reached for the rope that he had set aside earlier.

‘Do you have to?’ said Timothée softly, ‘It’s mighty uncomfortable, and if my legs are tied I’m unable to go anywhere anyway.’

‘But if your hands are untied then you can untie your legs,’ said Armie, his eyes narrowing, ‘I’m not stupid.’

‘I didn’t say you were,’ said Timothée with a shrug, as Armie tugged his hands towards him and started to tie the knots.

‘I won’t do them so tight,’ said Armie, ‘You can’t get out of the room anyway, seeing as I have the key to the lock.’

He saw Timothée’s eyes dart to the door, registering the heavy lock on the inside. Even if he was thinking about attempting a mad dash for freedom, he hadn’t thought about that, clearly. Armie saw him sigh deeply, before lying down, his bound hands outstretched in front of him. Armie crouched to tie his feet; doing as he promised and leaving it relatively loose, so that the ropes didn’t bite into his skin.

‘I won’t have to tie you once we’re back in England,’ said Armie, almost apologetically as he stood up.

Timothée didn’t say anything, but merely awkwardly rolled away from him, so all Armie could see was his back. Armie shrugged to himself; the feelings of his prisoner were of little concern to him. Despite that, he felt a pang of something a little close to guilt to be comfortable. He shoved the feeling down and flung himself down on his own mattress, willing sleep to come quickly tonight, unplagued by irritating thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes
> 
> 1\. As far as I am aware there was no permanent town that was established after Sluys. Sluys was a naval battle that ensued English supremacy over the channel (hence the _English_ channel). I've made up this town as a stop gap until the English took the port town of Calais, in order for Armie to have somewhere to buy passage back to England. The English would have needed supplies whilst on campaign, so it's not a stretch to imagine a temporary port appearing to that end.  
> 2\. Old money was measured in d/s/l - denarius (or pennies), solidus (or shillings), librae (or pounds). So Armie is charged 15d, or 15 pence per man, and 5 pence per horse. I don't know the buying power of old money especially, and trying to measure the buying power of money over 700 years ago is extremely challenging. I have used the fact that a unskilled labourer could earn up to 2d a day, a meal in a tavern was 3d, a linen shirt would cost 8d... the rent of a labourer's cottage would be 60d for the year, hence why Armie knows he's being overcharged to be charged 60d for four men for _one night's_ passage.  
> 3\. There were 12 pence in a shilling - 12d in 1s. There were 20 shillings in a pound - 20s in 1l.  
> 4\. Hart is an archaic word for stag.  
> 5\. A cog was a flat-bottomed multi-use Medieval vessel. 
> 
> Anything else, let me know!


	5. Down In The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘What the devil did you mean by it?!’ came the yell from above him, a voice pulsing with the adrenaline of having just pinned his potential attacker beneath him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ach it's only two hours to Wednesday, so here y'go! :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for all your kind words on the last chapter - it truly means the world to me to hear what you think about my work. 
> 
> This chapter is angsty as fuck, but hopefully things will start to look up soon. Remember that this century was dark and life was hard, so it's not going to be all fairies and unicorns :P. Hope you like it anyway!
> 
> No history notes this time, as I don't think there's anything to clarify. Let me know if there's something you'd like to know! 
> 
> Stay safe and well!  
> xxxx

Timothée lay in the almost pitch blackness, listening to the noise of his captors’ breathing even out into the steady cadence of light sleep, something which was clearly going to elude him this night. There was one candle that they’d left lit, on a shelf up near the door and out of harm’s way of anyone knocking it in their sleep, but it was scarcely putting out enough light to illuminate the grubby wooden plank surrounding it. It would be used if they should need to light the others at some point in the night. He shifted slightly, trying to ease the ache in his shoulder brought about by lying with his hands bound together. He counted slowly, listening to the cadence of Armie’s breath in… and out… in… and out. He counted a hundred of those breaths before he slowly rolled over, trying to quiet the rustling of his blanket so as not to wake the other man. It had shifted down to his hips, but it was hardly cold, so he didn’t try and pull it back up to keep himself warm.

His eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom, and he could make out the shape of the body underneath the overcoat he was sleeping under. His captor was a _big_ man, he seemingly looked even bigger in the dark, the shadows stretching his form in more unnatural ways. Now he thought on it, he wondered what grip of madness had taken him when he decided to make an attempt on this man’s life. If only he’d thought of that at the time, then he might not be trussed up like an animal, to be taken to the country of his enemies. He wasn’t exactly scared, but he felt a shiver run up his spine nonetheless.

And yet the man who had taken him prisoner had treated him well, considering everything. He’d been fed, watered, and spoken to with respect, for the most part. Despite all that, he was of course, still a prisoner. To be taken far away from his home, and from his family. He gave a little dry sob when he thought of how the news would affect his father, already weak from the losses of first his mother, and then three of his siblings to a terrible fever the year before. Now it was just himself and his sister left. News of his son’s capture might just kill him. The thought made his heart pound with anguish and he mentally cursed himself again for his foolishness that had led him to this place, and the hurt that would inevitably cause. He felt so helpless in that moment, and a burst of anger welled up in his chest at that feeling, the utter maelstrom of feelings causing chaos within him. He wanted to vomit.

Very slowly he sat up, trying to make the minimal amount of noise, pushing the feeling of sickness down within him. It would do him no good to succumb to his sickness. What kind of man would he be if he settled for his lot? He bit his lip. He refused to simply be taken against his will, to god knows where, for god knows how long, and to some completely unknown end. At least without trying to do something about it.

He looked over at the door, and then back over at the sleeping form of Armie; the steady breaths still working their way in and out of his body. Armie had said that he had the key to the door. He wouldn’t have left it in his pack by the foot of his bed, that would be to careless. It must be in his coat, that was currently slung over his body in a haphazard manner. He looked down at his hands, before pushing the blanket right down over his legs to look at his feet. He could wiggle his fingers, but couldn’t move his hands more than an inch apart, as they were bound together at the wrist. He wondered if he could, with effort, slip his hands free. He wriggled his hands this way and that, trying to get a little bit of room to move one way or another. There was no give to be had; the man who had tied him knew what he was doing with knots and ropes. Perhaps he would have better luck with his legs; he reached down and began to pull, trying not to rustle the blanket too much. It was immensely difficult to do anything at all in the near total darkness, despite how used to it his eyes had become. He managed to catch some part of the knot, and part of it began to come loose. It took about another two minutes of struggling with the rope, and it slid away from where it was twisted around his ankles. He nearly gave an exclamation of delight before he swallowed it with consternation at his situation. His shot a darting glance at the sleeping man, but he was still breathing slowly in and out, sleep still upon him. Timothée wondered if he was dreaming, and if so, what of.

His hands were still a problem, and he had no idea how he was going to get them loose. He had no weapons, so he couldn’t even use a sharp knife to fray the rope free. His feet were free though, and that was definitely something. He turned onto his knees, mentally cursing when the floorboards creaked beneath him. His head shot up and he looked at the sleeping form in front of him, expecting the man to wake at any second. It was clear at the moment, however, that God was on his side, and the man remained asleep. Timothée could just see the outline of his shoulder and the edge of his sharp cheek in the gloom. He looked over the coat, trying to see where he might be storing a key. Surely it would be in one of the pockets, or on his belt somewhere. He prayed to God it was the former, as he had no hope in hell if it was on his belt. He looked in the gloom but it was no use; he couldn’t see anything, other than where the top of the coat was and where the hem. If he was going to do this, it would have to be by feel. _Think_ _Timothée_ , he cautioned himself; where were pockets likely to be? If he dared he would fetch the candle off the ledge to cast further light on what he was trying to see, but the flickering would almost certainly wake the other man.

He laid his hands oh so gently on the top of the man’s body. That shouldn’t wake him; it would just feel as if the coat had shifted slightly, if he felt it at all. He ran his hands very slowly down the nearest side, covering the man’s back. He wondered to himself, if he had a knife right now, would he use it? Would he kill the man lying before him? He’d already tried to once, but that was different. Then he’d been standing, his enemy in plain view. Now he was asleep; defenceless. There was nothing on this side, no weights within the fabric which suggested anything close to a key. He looked over the other side of the sleeping form, and saw that the man was sleeping much the way he had been before when he was lying on the floor; his hands stretched out in front of him. Except with one major difference; Armie was sleeping with his hand curled around the hilt of a knife, the blade sheathed, but clearly ready to be used at any time. Timothée had practically stopped breathing by this point as he leaned forward a little, trying to imagine the position of the key.

He very gently moved his hands down the front of the coat, unable to feel anything other than the material of the coat beneath his fingers, his mind solely focused on the idea of _key key key_. If he’d been thinking about anything else at that moment, he would have registered that the steady cadence of Armie’s breath had ceased it’s even in and slow out. Instead there was just silence in the room.

A second later he had a face full of scratchy straw and a knee in his back, pressing him down hard into the uneven surface. He tried to thrash in a blind panic, but as his hands were bound in front of him, he just ended up kicking like a fish that had been pulled out of the water whilst still living. He grunted and struggled, his breathing hampered by the straw, but the knee held him fast, the knife that had been sheathed now cold against his cheek.

‘What the devil did you mean by it?!’ came the yell from above him, a voice pulsing with the adrenaline of having just pinned his potential attacker beneath him.

He knew it wasn’t a question that he was supposed to answer; not that he could even if he the desire to, as his mouth was virtually stuffed by straw. He didn’t even want to think of the fleas that might be entering his mouth even at that moment. He tried to struggle, but this just succeeded only in moving Armie’s knee to a space somewhere between his ribs, making it even more difficult to breathe. A moment later and he was flipped once again, this time onto his back. A shiver of fear ran through him as he took in the expression on his captor’s face; it looked almost blank, as if devoid of emotion. Either that or like a snake about to strike. Timothée froze almost out of instinct; he didn’t want to do anything else that would cause this man to lose his temper right now, or he might lose more than the liberty he had been trying to regain.

Then Armie dragged him to the floor, and he hit his shoulder with a dull thunk on the way down, causing a burst of pain to shoot through him. Armie sheathed the knife; now that he was sure that Timothée was no threat to him. They were in such a small space that the man was able to reach over to the rope that he’d been able to wriggle out of earlier, and tied it tightly around his ankles, no measure of leniency given this time. Then the next thing he knew a cord of leather was looped between his still tied wrists and his newly tied ankles, pulling him into a curled foetal position that was most uncomfortable. His back would ache something fierce if he was to lie like this for any particular time.

‘If you can’t be trusted to lie like I had you, then you will lie like this; trussed like a hunted deer,’ said Armie gruffly almost to himself as he finished tying him tightly,’ So much for beginning to trust you.’

‘Would you have done anything differently in my position?’ he said, unable to help himself.

‘Do not speak,’ said Armie, ‘Otherwise I will put a rag so far in your mouth you might just choke on it.’

Armie got up then, picking the candle up from near the door and light the ones on the floor near the bed, and also on the windowsill. A little more light was shed on the situation as a result, and Timothée tried to struggle again but to no avail.

‘Did you really think I would be that careless with the key?’ Armie asked, sitting back on the straw mattress slowly. Timothée couldn’t move a muscle, so it was only his eyes that were able to follow Armie’s movements as he showed where he had stowed the key; attached to his belt, and then hidden inside the side of his breeks. Timothée gave a sob of frustration; he never had any hope of finding it, and now he’d given up what last little bit of freedom he’d had, in pursuit of a fruitless mission. He tried to roll away from the accusing gaze of his captor, but was prevented by Armie reaching out and grabbing the rope looped around his knees and pulling him back to face him.

‘Look at me,’ said Armie, his eyes searching deep into Timothée’s own. He wanted to look away, but something was stopping him, a deep-seated pull that he couldn’t ignore, like the way the hand of a compass was pulled towards the north. He knew Armie needed to see something in them, whatever that might be. Yes, he’d been trying to deceive him in attempting to escape, but he was not deceiving by nature, and something in him wanted Armie to see that, despite everything. A moment later and Armie broke his gaze. Timothée wanted to ask whether he’d found what he was looking for in his eyes, but he was wary of Armie’s threat about gagging him, so he kept his mouth shut. The other man leaned forward a moment later and checked the tightness of the ropes once again. Once satisfied he snuffed out the candle by the bedside and flopped back onto the mattress, rolling away from Timothée with a movement that screamed of finality, leaving Timothée to a very uncomfortable night.

**

Nothing was said the following morn when Armie dragged him to his feet, only pausing to undo the bond around his knees so that he could walk with a greatly reduced gait, and then pushed him out of the tavern. Armie’s men said nothing when they saw an apparent new coolness between them, although he saw a sly grin creep onto Matthews’ face when he took in the discomfort that he was clearly in. He hadn’t decided what this man had against him, but clearly there was no love lost there. He didn’t deign to think on it any further, and tried to maintain some modicum of dignity when Armie shoved him up the gangplank and onto the deck of the ship that would take him to a strange and unfamiliar country. The horses were already onboard, tied below.

He felt something close to tears gather in the back of his throat as Armie walked him swiftly across the deck. He twisted about, trying to look back at his native homeland, unsure when or if he would ever see it again, but this time was pushed forward by Matthews towards the darkness of the hold. He wouldn’t even have a chance to watch the coastline as it disappeared from view.

‘Move, Frenchman,’ said Matthews, pushing him forward down the steep stairs. He yelled out as he stumbled on the wood, and tumbled down the last few, landing painfully on his shoulder that he bruised only last night.

‘Matthews!’

Henry’s voice rang out from the top of the steps, ‘My Lord said to look after the prisoner! Not to injure him by throwing him down the stairs.’

‘I don’t answer to you Henry,’ said Matthews matter-of-factly as he picked Timothée up off the floor and half-pushed, half-carried him towards the communal cabin that they would all share until they reached the English coast.

‘No, but you will answer to My Lord if you hurt him further,’ said Henry, following them, ‘And you’re not exactly in his good graces at the moment.’

Matthews grunted in a mixture of annoyance and acknowledgement of this statement, before dropping him unceremoniously onto the floor in the corner of the communal cabin. He’d clearly decided that this was to be their corner of the cabin, for the journey back to England. That was all he was really aware of, until he felt the ship shift beneath them, the feel of it beginning to move. He did begin to cry then, unable to help himself. He cried for his family; hoping that news of his disappearance wouldn’t bring them undue grief, especially when a letter arrived from him, telling them that he wasn’t dead. At least he had that minor mercy to be thankful for; he hoped Armie would still let him send it, despite what had happened. His mind swam as he lay upon the uncomfortable boards, trying to cling onto something. He didn’t sleep the night before for his discomfort and aching thoughts. Now he let his thoughts wander to his home, in happier times, times when he and his siblings would play, or ride horses. With those thoughts to cling to, he allowed the rocking of the boat to help him descend into a restless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! xxxx


	6. A New Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Despite everything, Armie wasn’t heartless. He knew the young man was desperately worried about his father, and he had enough of a soul left that he wished to alleviate that; at least a little._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your kind comments on the previous chapter. I have no excuse as to why this chapter a day late, other than that I got distracted by the Witcher 3... sorry? :P
> 
> As for the next chapter, it will be a week later than usual, as I am away next week. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and let me know what you think! Historical notes at the end as always. 
> 
> V  
> xxxx

Thankfully the crossing back to England was calm and swift, and soon enough from his place on deck Armie saw the approaching shore of his homeland. He felt a small wash of relief at the sight. It had only been a handful of months since he had left these shores, but he was glad deep in his bones to see it once more. He may serve in the King’s army, but he was still happy to see his home country when he was given the opportunity. From the port at Southampton to his home it was a little under 350 miles, and he hoped to cover that distance in little over five days if he could. It would push the horses hard, but he knew that they would cope with it, with the promise of care and love at roads end.

He hoped he would find inns along the road from Southampton towards Cirencester, before they headed up towards Chester, before finally along to Carlisle. The roads were numerous in England, but badly kept, apart from the major routes. Most of them followed tracks that the Romans had laid down centuries before, and had not enjoyed much upkeep since then, Armie thought ruefully. He smiled as a sea breeze drifted across his form, making the hairs on his forearms stand up to the slight chill.

He thought of his men, still sequestered below deck, as well as his prisoner. He felt another shiver, this time of discomfort, as he thought of the way that he’d treated his prisoner over the past day or so. It didn’t sit well with him to have a prisoner in his grip at all; but what was he to do? Leave the young man in the King’s camp, to be executed as soon as they moved on for fear that he would either betray them or be a burden? No, he didn’t want that, despite the fact that lad was his enemy. Or at least he had been. He thought about his prisoners actions the night they were in the tavern. Could he really blame him for what he’d done? Yes, it was foolish for him to attempt what he had, but would he have acted any differently he’d been a prisoner in someone else’s grip? He thought probably not. He wouldn’t have just accepted whatever fate had thrown his way without a word or action, he would have at least tried, like the lad had done.

He turned away from the prow of the boat to look back at the deck. All the sailors were running to and fro, securing ropes and working to tie the sails as they were no use this close to shore. It would be the few oarsmen who would guide them into the medium depth harbour at Southampton. Henry was walking towards him, avoiding a hurrying sailor as he approached.

‘Everything alright below, Henry?’ asked Armie.

‘Aye, My Lord,’ said Henry, his eyes flicking over his shoulder towards the approaching the shore, ‘It is good to see home again.’

‘Aye, yes it is,’ said Armie, mirroring the colloquialism of Henry’s speech. As where they were from was so close to Scotland, many of that countries dialects had influence on the speech of the people nearby. Duncan and James were actually from families over the border, who had long been loyal to the English masters just on the other side. He knew that he shouldn’t let such things slip into his own speech, as it wasn’t becoming of a Lord, but he found that it allowed him to acquire a sort of camaraderie with his men, something that was useful when on campaign or on patrol on the borders.

‘Get Matthews and bring the prisoner,’ said Armie, nodding back towards the hold, where the others were still below, ‘We’ll disembark as soon as we can, get the horse, and be on our way. I want to be well out of Southampton by this evening.’

Henry nodded and turned away again, doing as he was bid. Soon enough, Matthews and Tim emerged into the sunlight of the deck, blinking in the sudden light after the darkness of the below. A few of the more curious passengers also emerged, much to the annoyance of the sailors who were still busy at work. Armie caught the eye of the captain stood on the fore deck, he looked as if he might say something about getting in the way. Armie fixed him with a gaze, as if daring him to attempt to order him about. A captain might be king aboard his ship, but this close to the shore of England, it wouldn’t do to annoy a Lord of the kingdom. Not that Armie would do anything about it particularly; he had better things to do with his time than be concerned with the actions of a small-time sea captain.

His prisoner and Matthews approached the side, the prisoner’s eyes warily darting along the approaching shoreline. His hands were tied, but his feet and legs were free to enable him to climb the steps and walk down the gangplank. Now that they were in England, or near as could be, Armie was less worried about the lad attempting escape. He had no money, and was in a land where he didn’t speak the language, other than that of the gentry and nobility. He also probably didn’t really know where he was, other than somewhere on the south coast. Armie doubted that he’d have studied many maps of England in his time, having had no real reason to.

‘Is that it then?’ he said, nodding glumly.

Armie murmured his agreement at the question before adding, ‘Not much longer now.’

‘Good,’ he said, ‘I don’t think I’m much for sailing.’

Armie shrugged, ‘We’ll disembark as soon as we can and be on our way.’

Timothée looked across at him, his face nervous, ‘Will I still be allowed to write to my father?’

Armie thought about it for a moment, ‘I don’t see why not. I shall read it before you seal it, however.’

Timothée nodded despite the shadow that crossed his face, ‘I expected as much.’

‘I shall send Henry for some writing materials when we reach the town,’ said Armie, ‘For I have a letter of my own to send alongside yours.’

Timothée made a non-committal noise, without deigning to speak any further, and went back to resolutely looking at the shore.

**

That night in a tavern about three leagues from Southampton, they made their stop, finding space for the horses in the stables and a hearty meal. They sat as a group of four at one of the tavern’s scrubbed oak tables, eating whatever the landlady had decided to serve up hot that day. It was some sort of beef and barley broth thought Armie, with a slab of bread on the side, but it tasted plenty good enough. These days it wasn’t half so bad, but he remembered vaguely in his youth when it had been a serious hardship to come by any decent meat. There had been an animal murrain when he had just past his tenth birthday, and many animals had died of the disease. That on top of several bad harvests had caused widespread famine. He didn’t want to imagine how many people had died – he wasn’t sure his capacity for imagining numbers went that high – but he knew that entire villages had been left deserted. His father had done his best to see everyone in the castle and the village fed, but it had been extremely hard going at times, with harsh punishments for those who were found to be taking more than their fair share. He recalled that many had wondered out loud as to what they had done to have God punish them so.

For his part, he wasn’t entirely sure that God had a lot to do with it. He’d read his bible, and from what he’d understood, the God he worshipped wanted to help those in need, as seen through the actions of his son. His father’s priest had disagreed though, talking often about sin and hellfire from the pulpit of the castle chapel. He often found, according to his priest at least, that sin seemed to be mostly alleviated by way of parting with a great deal of money in favour of the church. He’d kept his mouth shut on that one of course. It was blasphemy to question the church or the workings of its servants. Either way he liked to imagine that God was more kindly that some priests would have their congregations believe, and that as long as you were good to your fellow man, prayed to Him, gave alms, and tried to live a life led by good, then He would be benevolent towards you. Perhaps that was naïve of him to think so. He tried to convince himself that such questions were better left to theologians, and he had more mundane issues with which to deal with.

After supper, he left Henry and Matthews in the taproom. There was a travelling band of musicians in residence tonight, and they’d struck up their instruments, much to the delight of the patrons, many of whom were already dancing in a space where the heavy tables had been pushed aside. Timothée came with him; not for lack of want to see the musicians, but more to spend as little time in Matthews’ company as possible, Armie thought. He knew there was no love lost between his squire and the prisoner. For his part, he had kept to his word, and Timothée was now unbound, and free to move about as he willed, as long as he stayed predominately within eye and earshot. Armie had reasoned that he wasn’t going to try anything now; not that he had any money to try it with. Furthermore, Armie had told him quite clearly, that if he did attempt any further shenanigans, then he would find him a place in the keep’s dungeon when he returned home, rather than the relative comfort of house arrest that he was currently planning. Timothée seemed to take his threat seriously, had nodded, and said that he had learned his lesson.

When they were back in the room which was to be theirs for the night, Armie took up residence in the seat by the small wooden table, in order to pen his letter. Henry had delivered paper and ink to him earlier, as he had directed, and there was enough for him to write both letters he intended, leaving enough for Timothée to pen a letter home. Rather than waste the expensive vellum writing surface, he had decided that Timothée’s letter would follow directly on from his own, saving on space. He knew his letter wouldn’t be long, so it would give the young man enough room to say what he wished to say. Despite everything, Armie wasn’t heartless. He knew the young man was desperately worried about his father, and he had enough of a soul left that he wished to alleviate that; at least a little. Timothée was sat behind him on one of the straw mattresses, looking out the window at the darkening August sky, his expression studiously blank.

He reached into his saddlebag and drew out the paper and the carefully stored ink, as well as quill that Henry had procured. He bought two; in case the tip of one became irreparably damaged. Armie knew how to sharpen a quill, but if it split down the middle, there would be little he could do to save it. He carefully unscrewed the ink bottle, before dipping the nib into the black liquid.

_Sir,_

_This letter contains a matter of utmost importance, and one which I hope will bring a little succour to your perhaps injured soul. Your son, following the battle that took place some weeks prior, is now in my custody. He is alive and well, and I have the means and intention to keep him so, as long as he honours his word regarding his undertakings whilst in my custody. It was the order of my King and yours that no prisoners be taken from the field, but following your son’s foolish attempt on my life the day after the battle, I was left with scant choice. I am not one to murder a man in cold blood in order to ease his own burden. His life is therefore at my disposal, and I shall set him to whatever purpose I see fit, although you can be assured that it will be the purpose of a gentleman, as long as the above honourable intentions are kept to._

_The business of this letter is such that your son is to remain in my custody until the following terms are met, or on the continuing agreement to such terms as is deemed appropriate –_

  * _you and yours will not raise any of your men against my king or countrymen, in trials of arms._
  * _you and yours will remain neutral in any further conflict between our two countries, united as they are sure to be soon under one King._
  * _your son will be set as his liberty, with retinue and surety of a return home, upon my receipt of £3,500._



_As a man guilty of lèse-majesté, yourself and your son should be grateful that it is merely his liberty that he has surrendered to me and not his life._

_I leave the rest of the vellum for a further note from your son, as testament to my continuing goodwill towards him, and evidence of my intention to keep him in comfort if the afore mentioned terms are met._

_Lord Armand Berkeley, Carlisle and West Marches._

He put the quill down and examined what he had written. He was satisfied with his terms, knowing they were steep but not entirely unreasonable. A marquis would be aware that his son would be valuable upon capture, and would expect such a sum to be demanded. In a previous conflict various Earls of Scotland had been ransomed by the King for anywhere between £4000-6000, hence Armie’s own choice of monetary amount.

Next he drew a separate piece of paper towards him, this time to pen a much more gentle letter to his sister, which he would send on ahead of himself and his party. He picked up the quill once again to write this short note.

_Dear Annie,_

_I arrived this day upon England’s shores once again, with two of my men and the previously-mentioned prisoner accompanying me. As such I anticipate that we will return home within the week, and I will begin to undertake the duties that are now mine to bear as Lord of my estates. Please ensure that a room is prepared for the prisoner, as close as to mine own as is possible, as I would like to oversee his confinement, and assure that it is to the standard which I would expect._

_Invite the vassals, gentry and those of import to the castle for a gathering on Saturday next. It would do well to introduce them formally to their new Lord and master._

_God’s blessings to you,_

_Your loving brother, Armie._

He read it through quickly once again, and being satisfied with what it said, folded and sealed it with the candlewax. He did not have his own seal available to him, so an unmarked seal would have to suffice. He turned around to look at Timothée, who was exactly where he’d been when he’d looked before. It seemed as if the man had decided to take the opposite approach now that his previous escape attempt had been foiled; he would be compliant and quiet. A little like a piece of baggage, Armie thought acerbically. Clearly it would take Timothée some time to get used to his new circumstances, but perhaps he would be more affable once he had had some time to accustom himself to them.

‘You may come and write your letter,’ said Armie, vacating the chair for Timothée to sit down. Saving paper was not the only reason he’d allowed Timothée to write his own note on the bottom of his letter to his father; he always wanted him to read the terms that he had laid out, something he did swiftly upon sitting down at the table. His eyes widened when he saw the sum Armie was asking, and he let out a small gasp of discomfort, before he closed his eyes, took a deep breath to centre himself, and picked up the quill to compose his own note.

Armie watched him write, the flowing French words emerging from the tip of the quill with ease. The young man was skilled in his penmanship, and had an art with the way he crafted letters. Armie himself enjoyed the way in which he wrote, and he had not previously met another who had matched his skill in writing. Perhaps he would find a use for Timothée when he returned to the castle that would put this skill to good.

It didn’t take the young man long to finish what he needed to say, before he picked up the paper, blew on it to hasten the drying of the ink, and passed it to Armie to read what he had said.

_Dear Papa,_

_I am so so sorry for the hurt that this letter will have caused you, and hope that it brings you scant comfort that I am at least still breathing. It seems as if that breath is to cost you dear, however, and I hope that the love you bear for me is enough to not wish my demise for such an expense. I do wonder if perhaps it would have been better if I had laid down my life’s blood upon that field, rather than to be where I find myself now. That was not God’s will it seems, and the circumstances have unfolded differently to that intention. My captor appears to be an honourable man, for his part, and I have confidence in his word that he means to not mistreat me, should my actions and deportment towards him prove true. I am not afeared for my life in his company at any rate, and I have not been harmed._

_I wish you happiness, and alleviation from grief father, and I pray that the continued presence of my sister will provide some succour and joy to you, despite what else has come to pass._

_Your ever loving and loyal son, Timothée._

Armie nodded after he’d finished it, before he leaned over and using the rest of the melted candlewax, sealed the letter. He didn’t comment of what Timothée had written, although he was slightly perturbed by the fact that he had mentioned perhaps it would have been better if he had been killed, rather than finding himself where he was now. He hoped that that feeling would pass as it became apparent that he was to be treated with respect and honour, despite his status as prisoner.

‘You will provide the details for the messenger on the morrow,’ said Armie to Timothée, ‘There are frequent ships to the continent from Southampton, with a few sure to be bound for the region where you are from. It will be sent with them.’

Timothée nodded, suddenly looking very weary. He rubbed his hand across his eyes, before he stood up. Armie followed him with his gaze, watching as he turned back towards him.

‘I thank you for your kindness in allowing me to compose a letter to my family,’ said Timothée formally, ‘Now, I will retire to sleep.’

He gave a short bow from the waist in Armie’s direction, before he did exactly as he had stated, and retired to his own mattress. Armie didn’t resist. As he’d expected, it would take the man some getting used to his new circumstances, and seeing as he had no choice but to endure them, Armie was prepared to wait for him to relax a little from this new stilted formality that overcome him since he’d boarded the ship two days previously.

For his own part, Armie ensured the door was locked, stowed the key and his belongings, snuffed out all but one of the candles, murmured his own prayers, and then he too retired to sleep. They had a long day of riding ahead of them, followed by several more after that. They would need all the rest they could get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes: 
> 
> 1\. There was a famine in the 1310s due to several years of successive bad harvests. This was followed by animal murrain (think foot and mouth disease), which compounded the problem. It is thought that many millions died with the population of England falling from somewhere between 11-12 million to around 7 million by 1328.  
> 2\. I mention the idea of indulgences; these could be purchased from the church in return for forgiveness of one's sins.  
> 3\. Ransom was common in the medieval period, and was well established by the fourteen century, with a framework for how it was undertaken. It would not have been surprising for someone to be taken prisoner, and then ransomed back to their liberty.  
> 4\. It is a very high sum that Armie asks for Timothee, but it was not unusual for such a sum to be asked for a member of the nobility.  
> 5\. lèse-majesté - treason.
> 
> I think that's everything... if you want to know anything else, let me know!  
> xxxx


	7. In The Quiet Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And there had been a boy next to him, much like there was now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, 
> 
> Hope you like this chapter - it's a little longer as it's late. I'm going away again next week and then it's my birthday, so the next one will probably a bit away again. Sorry about that! 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy! Let me know your thoughts about it please, your comments mean everything to me and inspire me to keep writing!
> 
> xxxxx

They were three days’ ride further along the road, somewhere near Chester, and had found a poor excuse for a tavern close to the place on the road where they had decided that the horses could go no further that day. For his part, the prisoner had remained stoic and quiet for the last three days, only speaking when necessary or when direct questions were asked of him. Henry had tried to get him to open up a few times, but had desisted when he had received no particular response other than the odd nod or noncommittal grunt. Armie knew that it was just going to take Timothée time to get used to his new situation, and that the change from his affability seen in Northern France was merely that then he had had hope – hope that his time with them would be short, and that he would find some way to his liberty. Now that that hope had gone, his sadness would take some alleviation. Time would probably be the only healer. He hoped that when they reached the keep, and he saw that Armie was planning to keep his word at keeping him in comfort and safety, that his melancholia would dissipate.

This time there was no private room for either him or his men in which to find a bed for the night, and all four of them had been directed to the hayloft above the stables for their beds. Armie didn’t mind especially, it meant that they could keep a closer eye on the horses, dissuading any brigands or potentially bribe-able stable boys from stealing away with one of them. He couldn’t say that it was common for such a thing to happen, as to have it happen regularly would completely destroy the reputation of a tavern. No inn would last very long if travellers thought they would be robbed blind when they stayed there. Still, it wasn’t unheard of.

He was awake, sitting up in the almost complete darkness, only the few lanterns in the stable below with their meagre light providing any penetration to the gloom. He could see Henry and Matthews on his left, snoring away peacefully, their thoughts untroubled. The prisoner was on his right. He wasn’t snoring, or breathing that deeply, suggesting that his sleep was nowhere near as deep. He _was_ asleep though, Armie thought, the mop of curly dark brown hair cast askance over most of the top of his brow, shielding his eyes from view. His mouth was slightly open, breath slowly escaping across his lips. Even in this light Armie could see the dusky pink colour.

He was transported back to a moment many years ago, in similar circumstances; a moment that changed his life forever, despite the lack of its repetition. It had been a stable much as this one, but in Yorkshire, where he’d been squired to the second Baron Neville. It had been Middleham Castle where he’d been based predominately, and Middleham Castle where this particular memory had taken place. He’d been sitting up, much like he was now, except it had been just after dusk, rather than full dark.

And there had been a boy next to him, much like there was now.

He didn’t really understand how it had happened. He just knew that he’d grown close to one of the grooms, the one who’d been teaching him how to tilt and charge like a true knight should. They’d spent many hours together whilst they’d been hunting, hawking, riding, cleaning the tack, and whatever else the stablemaster could find for him and the other squires and grooms to do. He’d been there for two years at that time, since he’d been a boy of thirteen, and they’d grown to be close friends in that time. So it was, somehow, that he’d found himself sitting alone with him, in the relaxed hours after supper. The work for the day had been done, but there was still an hour or two left of daylight before they were called to their communal chamber. All the squires slept in one room, and their use of candles was heavily monitored, with them being so expensive. As that were the case, they were up with the sun and then down to sleep with the dark. In the winter it was a little different, there was a time about five hours after nightfall when they rose again, for the tasks of letters, mending and stitching, and other such things that the limited hours of daylight did not have time for at such times of the year.

It being September at the time, however, the nights had only just started drawing in, with the light still lasting for a handful of hours after the supper had been cleared. That was when he’d gone to the stable with Thomas. That had been his name. Nobody would look for them, as all the work had been finished. Their time was their own. He didn’t quite know why he’d followed him, other than that Thomas had asked, so he’d agreed. They’d gone into the quiet stable; the stablemaster had retired to his own cottage and his wife for his own food for the evening. He didn’t know what made them do it; whether there was some sort of madness in the air that day, or whether that it was Thomas was the only person who seemed to have shown him any sort of affection since he’d left home, but when the older boy had placed his mouth on his, he’d let him. He’d had the beginnings of a beard, and it scratched at his face, but in a way that he’d quietly relished, rather than drawn away from. He’d been a little taken aback when the other’s tongue had licked at his lower lip, as if asking him whether he would open his mouth. So he had done, he’d invited him into his mouth, letting him gently caress the roof of his mouth with his tongue. It was a somewhat odd feeling, he recalled, but it felt good, and made his belly flutter in surprised delight.

They’d moved then, into the hayloft, and discarded their clothes in a pile next to the makeshift mattress. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen another man naked; he saw the squires all the time when they washed and took their weekly baths. Some of the lads complained that they were forced to take _weekly_ baths, even in the winter. One boy had said that his father had said it was downright unhealthy to bathe so often, and that they were bound to catch a chill or worse from such attentions. As yet, however, they’d not suffered any ill effects.

He’d let his gaze wander over the muscles of the other man, grown strong in the years of him working hard in the stables and in the tiltyard. He reached out to touch, to explore, and the older boy had let him, doing much the same to him as well. His cock was stood to attention, much the way it did in the mornings sometimes, or when he accidentally saw one of the maids bathing in her shift, the clothing sticking to her form, showing him everything. This is what had told him that it wasn’t only boys that turned his head. Was it possible to like both? Or was it just his over imaginative mind that made his cock stand at anything that looked twice at him? When Thomas had touched his cock he’d almost yelped with the pleasure of it. It felt so much better than his own hand, and his head had fallen forward onto the other boy’s shoulder as they’d knelt opposite each other, quietly stroking, gasping in the joy of it.

‘Do you know how two men do it?’ the older boy had breathed in his ear, barely audible as the pleasure swam foggy in his head.

Armie shook his head. Truthfully, he did not know. He’d seen male and female animals swiving in the farm yard, so he knew how they did it; the man’s cock went inside the woman. But that wasn’t possible with a man, was it?

Thomas ran his down his body, across his backside, and down to the hole that was there, gently trailing his finger across the furled skin. Armie had hissed and clenched, amazed by the sensitivity and the shudder of delight that raced up his spine at the touch. He’d never touched nor been touched by any other person there, and he was amazed at how it felt.

‘Yes?’ breathed Thomas, still gently stroking his cock. Armie nodded vigorously, wanting Thomas to touch him again, ‘But not today.’

‘Why not?’ breathed Armie against his mouth, capturing it with his own once again, ‘I would let you.’

After a bruising kiss and bitten lips, Thomas had pulled back once again, ‘We can’t. Oil is needed, and we have nothing, nor a substitute. Spit does not do a very good job.’

Armie thought about it for a second, before he figured that it made sense. He’d heard some of the older boys talking about what it had been like when they’d fucked the girls in the nearby town. There’d been a lot of talk about how warm and wet it had been, how tight and hot. He figured that something like that would probably need to be recreated in order for it to work between men. It would probably hurt otherwise, a tiny part of what was left of his logical mind reasoned.

‘So, what can we do?’ Armie asked, kissing him again.

‘Well we can do it like this,’ grinned Thomas, tugging his prick again, causing or a bolt of pleasure to shoot through him, ‘Or…’

He paused, licking into his mouth again.

‘Or?’ said Armie breathlessly when they parted.

‘I could take you in my mouth,’ said Thomas, pushing him backwards lightly so he landed on his ass with his arms behind him, his cock bobbing against his stomach. He watched with amazed surprise as Thomas learned down, and took his prick in his mouth. It took all of Armie’s wherewithal to not immediately thrust his hips up at the sensation. It was so warm, and wet, and it felt incredible. He panted out his pleasure through his parted lips.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ he hissed, adding but one more sin he would add to his hail Mary’s later today. He felt Thomas grin, and then he began to hum. Armie felt like his brain might be leaking out of his ears, or had certainly relocated to his cock. He twisted his fists into the straw either side of him, his belly clenched, the muscles taut underneath the skin. He could feel the rush of his release starting in his belly and he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold back.

‘Thomas, I’m going to -,’

He didn’t have time to finish that statement as Thomas gave another hum and used his tongue skilfully underneath the sensitive head of his prick, and he came; his spine arching up, sweat popping out on his naked chest as his pleasure rolled over him. He barely even noticed when Thomas spat his seed on the straw beside them. It took him a few moments to recover as he looked up at Thomas, a cozy sort of glow overcoming him. He pushed him back a moment later, toppling the older boy backwards into the hay.

‘My turn,’ he’d said, leaning down.

He’d been enthusiastic at his task, if not overly skilled. Thomas hadn’t seemed to mind, however, and after a few moments had released his spend into his mouth. Armie remembered that he’d followed his lead and had spat it out into the straw. The taste hadn’t been that bad, he remembered, but if that was what he was supposed to do, then that was what he would do.

That had been the only time he’d shared such a thing with Thomas, as a few weeks later he’d been asked by the Lord’s second oldest son, who had lands of his own, to be the stablemaster for him at his own property further south. Thomas had left, for higher pay and a more senior position, he’d have been foolish not to.

They’d been a few others since, in far flung brothels where his anonymity was assured. There were a few establishments that catered to those who liked men and women, and no questions were ever asked about it. He found that no one cared in such places as long as the right amount of gold changed hands. As such, he’d learnt a thing or two since his time in the hay with Thomas. He smirked a little to himself at the thought, a slow curl of arousal with no particular direction gently stirring in his gut at the memory.

To his left Henry gave a great hefting snore, and rolled over in his sleep. Sufficiently returned to the present Armie smiled to himself in the dark, before he felt the first vestiges of tiredness actually come over him. He felt that he should at least try and sleep, for they had a long way to go tomorrow, and the day after. He hoped that that would suffice, and that the day after tomorrow would be the day that he would see home. But for that to be the case, they would have to make good headway on their journey on both days. Not bothering to lie down any further, as it wouldn’t improve his comfort overly much, he closed his eyes, and hoped that sleep would take him quickly.

**

Once they were north of Chester the following day they passed from rolling fields of farmland into a much wilder country. Armie smiled in relish; this looked more like home. The wild forest, mountains, and babbling rivers that ran burbling over rocks felt like the bones of a very old country; still mostly untamed by the touch of man’s hand.

‘Where are we?’

He was almost surprised when his prisoner spoke under his own volition for the first time in days. They’d managed to purchase a gelding for a very decent price before leaving Southampton, but Armie had tied the bridle of that horse to Helios’ own with a long lead rope. Timothée might now be sat in his own saddle, but he couldn’t go further a few metres ahead of behind Armie’s own mount.

‘We’re in the Earldom of Lancaster,’ said Armie, ‘The land that borders my own to the south. We’ve Furness Abbey to the west, and the Scottish Borders to the north.’

The prisoner grunted his understanding, ‘So it’s not too far then?’

‘No,’ said Armie, ‘Not all that far. Why, are you getting saddle sore?’

‘Hardly,’ Timothée said, ‘After months on horseback in the army, it would take more than a few days to make me saddle sore.’

There were a few moments of silence before he spoke again, ‘This country is wild. Far wilder than my own.’

‘It is beautiful is it not?’ Armie asked. Timothée looked around before he nodded.

‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ he said, ‘It’s rugged and looks as if it might swallow a man who does not know his way.’

‘It would do that I suppose,’ said Armie, ‘To anyone who got lost amongst the wilds. Luckily for you, I know this country well, having spent many years exploring the wild.’

‘And to the north?’ he asked, ‘You said Scotland?’

‘Yes,’ said Armie, ‘And it is my charge to maintain order along the border.’

‘Maintain order?’ said Timothée, his voice rising with scepticism, ‘I wonder if the Scots feel the same way about it?’

‘Some do,’ said Armie, ‘Others not as much. But as my brother found, and my father and grandsire before him, it is much better to maintain good relations with our friends north of the border in order to try and keep the peace.’

‘Much like your King did in the east of the country?’ said Timothée, his voice acerbic.

‘Hmmm you heard about that then?’ said Armie.

‘Most of France heard about that,’ said Timothée, ‘Especially after the same tactic was employed across our own country.’

‘Well you already know my thoughts on that,’ said Armie.

‘And yet you ride with him? said Timothée.

‘I am one of the Lords of his country, do you think I have over much choice in the matter when my King calls me to arms, whether I agree with his methods or not. That’s not to say I don’t agree with his aims or intentions. But I have little say in how he undertakes to achieve those aims.’

Timothée gave a noncommittal grunt again, as if he would not be drawn into something on which they clearly disagreed.

‘We will come to the castle tomorrow,’ said Armie, changing the subject, ‘And tonight we will have to camp out in the wild, for as you can see, we are a long way from many people.’

‘There are no travelling inns at all?’ asked Timothée.

‘Aye, there are, but the nearest to here is Lancaster, and that’s out of our way, so we will not be making a detour,’ said Armie.

His prisoner made no further comments, other than to shrug a little, and continuing to look around this wild and rugged country that would now be his home for the foreseeable future.

That night they slept about half a mile from the road (if one could call it that in this particular section – it was more just a straight line where the trees _didn’t_ grow), using a small enclave of trees as shelter, and their few belongings to create camp. Armie was glad it was still summer and that they were able to do this. Lancaster was quite a way to the west of their journey, as they were pretty much keeping the rugged hills that rose up the centre of the country just to their right as they headed north. They would have had to have headed for the castle town if the weather had been more inclement. Freezing to death due to his own stubbornness was not a fate he particularly relished. Thankfully it was still warm at night as summer drew towards its end.

It was full dark, and they were sitting around their small campfire eating the rabbits that Henry had successfully caught in his hastily constructed snares. Henry was very good at building traps and it had hardly taken any time at all before two of them had yielded what become their supper that night. Matthews had been in charge of collecting water from the spring higher up the hills. It being far from human civilisation they could be fairly confident that the fast-flowing water would be clean enough to drink. Armie knew from his mother that clean water was important for people to drink, although he didn’t get it very often when with the army, or at a tavern in any town; small ale was a much safer option in most cases. Out here with a spring so close, they were safe in drinking it. He was lucky as his own keep boasted a clear spring, where water appeared from the ground, as cold and as clean as freshly melted snow. It was because of this, and his mother’s insistence that the waters were given to the sick to drink in place of ale, that he knew how important such a source was.

‘I’ll be glad to see Maggie again,’ said Henry, leaning back against a tree trunk, his hands folded neatly over his belly in satisfaction.

‘Your wife?’ asked Timothée, finishing his own food and looking over at Henry.

‘Yes,’ said Henry with a grin, ‘Married near five years now.’

‘Children?’ asked the prisoner.

‘Two,’ said Henry smiling widely, ‘Little Harry, born last year, and Margaret who’s coming up four.’

‘They’d be more if he hadn’t been in the army so long!’ teased Matthews, seemingly in a lighter mood the closer they got to home, ‘Seems all he had to do was look at Maggie and she sprung for a whelp.’

‘You weren’t married were you?’ said Henry.

‘As if I would somehow now not be because my circumstances have changed?’ asked Timothée lightly. Armie thought about this for a moment; he’d never really considered whether Timothée was married, whether he had children of his own back in his home country.

Henry shrugged in answer to the question, to which Timothée shook his head, ‘In answer no, I am not married. My sister was about to be betrothed before I left with the army, but I do not know whether that has been concluded.’

‘Probably for the best,’ said Henry with a shrug, ‘Given…’

He broke off and gestured with another noncommittal gesture, which caused Timothée to smile sadly, and look back at the flames. He looked up quickly as the horse tied closest to the camp jostled nervously, stamping its feet as it shifted. Armie heard it too and looked across at Matthews and Henry. Neither of them had moved at all, and were seemingly deep in conversation with each other about what they’d get from cook when they got back to the keep tomorrow. Despite this, Henry had laid his hand upon his sword hilt and pulled it towards him slowly, without really suggesting that he was doing anything with it. Matthews’ sword was still at his hip, so he didn’t need to do anything more, but his posture had stiffened, his body alert to the noise of the forest around them.

‘What is it?’ muttered Timothée under his breath without really moving his lips.

‘I’m not sure,’ murmured Armie, ‘But it’s definitely something.’

‘Give me a sword,’ said Timothée instantly. Matthews’ head immediately whipped around as if he was going to protest but Armie minutely shook his head, keeping him silent.

He didn’t have time to do anything about Timothée’s request, as the next second there was an explosion of movement to his left, and Henry’s blade clattered upwards to meet the one of the bandit that had emerged from the dark, shrieking blue murder. Armie leapt to his feet, quickly surveying. There were five of them, he figured. Matthews had engaged two, Henry still fighting the one who he’d initially engaged. Timothée had been unable to do anything except throw himself out of harm’s way as much as possible. One of the assailants ran towards him, sword raised, whilst the last went for the horses.

‘No!’ Armie roared, shoving the bandit aside and going for the one who was trying to untie the knots that hobbled the horses. If they lost their mounts then it would take them another week to get home, if they made it all and weren’t overcome by other bandits or highwaymen along the road. Speed was useful in less civilised places.

They clashed steel a moment later, swords ringing as they met again and again, the horses whinnying and panicking next to them, thankfully still tied so they weren’t able to run off into the darkness. He beat the man back, away from the horses and packs but also away from the glow of the fire. It was difficult to see in the dark, although his eyes had swiftly become used to it. He was a better swordsman than his adversary, but the other was strong, and his blows were difficult to parry in order to land his own. He managed to whirl to the left after an overarm swing from his opponent that would have cleaved him in half had it met, and quickly drawing the dagger he kept in his belt, thrust it upwards under the man’s ribs. He heaved once, coughed horridly, warm blood flowing over the hand that still gripped the dagger, and then he dropped like a stone.

He heard a yell from behind him and spun around on the spot, but before he could raise his sword he realised it was too late. The bandit that he’d shoved to the ground earlier had clearly found his feet again, and was only a foot away from landing a blow that would surely kill him. But he was stopped a second later, when a blade emerged from beneath his breastbone, a look of surprise writ large on his face, before he fell forward onto Armie, coughing blood onto his shoulder. He pushed the body off him a moment later in horror and disgust, to reveal Timothée stood there, still holding the knife that had ended his assailants’ life. A few moments later when the adrenaline had subsided enough for him to see straight he met Timothée’s eyes, and could see the same adrenaline mirrored there.

‘Thank you,’ he said, his shoulders still heaving with his exertion.

Timothée didn’t say anything, but merely nodded, before he looked down at the blade in his hand and immediately dropped it to the ground as if burned.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

Armie looked over his shoulder and saw that Henry and Matthews were both dragging the other bandits to the edge of the camp. There were only two bodies.

‘Where’s the other one?’ he asked

‘Ran off,’ said Matthews, ‘He was wounded though, so I don’t think he’ll get far.’

Armie nodded, ‘Leave him; he won’t bother us anymore. Drag the bodies away from the camp, and then two of us will sleep while the other two keep watch.’

He turned back to Timothée, before he leaned down and picked up the dagger that he’d dropped. The younger man looked suddenly terrified, as if he might be about to run him through with it.

‘It’s alright; don’t be worried. You saved my life,’ said Armie, ‘Thank you. Keep it. You never know when you might be called upon to use it again.’

Timothée took the blade from him, and nodded slowly.

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly, sheathing the blade in his belt. Armie laid a hand upon his shoulder, in a gesture of supposed to be of gratitude, although he worried the younger man might see it as a threat. He removed it as they re-entered the circle of firelight and prepared to sleep.


	8. They Come To The Castle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the lovely feedback on the last chapter and the birthday wishes, that was very kind of you :) 
> 
> I will changing my posting schedule to once every ten days/two weeks, as I go back to work soon after being furloughed due to Covid for nearly five months(!). Hopefully that will give me plenty of time to write decent length chapters for you to enjoy. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you're staying healthy and safe, and enjoy this update. Historical notes at the end.
> 
> V  
> xxx
> 
> P.S - When I said slow burn in the tags, clearly I meant it. :P

The sun had just passed its highest point in the blue sky when upon reaching the crest of the next hill, the rocky limestone outcrops visible all the way down, as the keep came into view in the distance. From here the tall red stone tower in the midst of the cluster of buildings looked only the length of a needle, and the homes and shops of the small town that had developed around the castle were merely smudges on the horizon. Armie reigned in Helios, stopping to look down on his home, a smile creeping across his face as he did so. The horse whickered and pawed at the ground; this was familiar territory to him. Armie knew that he could let the horse pick out his own way from here. He knew where he was.

‘Matthews,’ he said, drawing the squire up beside him, ‘Ride on ahead, let them know we’re here.’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ said Matthews excitedly, and digging his heels into the side of his mount, he cantered off towards the town.

‘So,’ said Timothée, beside him by virtue of the lead rope which was still tied to both his horse and Helios, just in case of any final thoughts of a mad dash toward freedom, ‘That’s home?’

‘Yes,’ said Armie, ‘The castle and city of Carlisle. The castle was built by my great-great-something grandfather, after the lands were given to him by William I.’

Timothée could not suppress his gasp of surprise at this piece of information.

‘Ah, so there is some French blood in you after all!’ said Timothée, in the closest thing to a gleeful voice Armie had heard since they landed in England.

Armie snorted, ‘Don’t get your hopes up; we haven’t held any lands in France for over two centuries, since Henry I demanded that his lords choose one side of the channel or the other.’

‘We’ll work on it,’ said Timothée with a grin.

‘Hmmm,’ said Armie, not entirely convinced, ‘How long have your family lived where they are?’

‘Since the time of Charlemagne,’ said Timothée, with a small shrug, ‘It was only a small holding then, but over the years due to marriages, alliances and so forth, it’s grown. And now I guess… it will end.’

Armie didn’t say anything, but shifted in his saddle. What Timothée had said wasn’t necessarily true; if his father paid the ransom and agreed to his terms, there was no reason why Timotheé wouldn’t see home again. He wasn’t going to feel guilty about following the laws of his King and those of war that had been employed time and time again. One thing he was certain of, was that Timothée definitely wouldn’t have seen home again if he’d killed him outright in the forest. At least this way there was a chance. He shook himself again; why was he even thinking like this? It wasn’t his lookout how the dynastic fortunes of his prisoner’s family faired. He had acted as he should have done.

To chase away anymore irritating thoughts he clicked his tongue and dug his heels into Helios’ side, urging him forward across the fields in front of them. Matthews should nearly be there by now, at the speed he took off, so they could follow at leisurely pace.

‘Be sure to stick to the paths,’ said Armie to Henry and Timothée (not that Timothée had too much of a choice with his mount still firmly tied to his own), ‘It’s coming up harvest time and the last thing I want is for the horses to damage any of the crop.’

Doing as they were bid, they trotted carefully through the fields below them. He had a fleeting thought about Matthews’ and how he had cantered this way – he hoped he’d remembered to keep to the paths. Either way, it was too late to do anything about it, so he made sure that he was being careful at least. He saw his peasants working away in the fields, clearing away the last of the weeds to optimise the harvest that was coming along nicely. It was back-breaking work that he couldn’t appreciate, but that didn’t mean he didn’t understand how important the work was. He knew there were some lords who sneered at their peasants, didn’t care for them or the work that they did. But he’d always been taught by his father that without them, there was no food; without them, there was no money to pay for the upkeep of the castle and the town. He might be at the top of the pyramid, but without those supporting it from the bottom, the whole thing would collapse. Most of the money in his holding came from wool; the sheep farms around the area covered miles and miles of the surrounding countryside. There was, however, a substantial belt of fertile land in front of the town that then snaked towards the river bank. This was where they were riding now, and he watched contentedly as the wheatears danced in the slight breeze, their golden heads heavy with grain.

It took them only about ten minutes to pick their way across the fields in front of the castle, before small dwellings began to appear in greater frequency. These then became larger and more prosperous as the town walls rose in front of them, the gates of the town standing wide and open during the day. A cart laden with livestock was passing under the gate as they approached; three goats and two swine by the look of it, Armie thought. They got in line behind them, in order to allow other traffic to emerge on the opposing side of the road. Originally the town would have been wholly inside the city wall, but as the population had grown, it had spilled out, like a sack overfull with too much wool; bulging out in all directions until it splits at the seams. Armie had seen it grow even his lifetime, with streets springing up outside the walls, as more and more dwellings were added. There were rules of course, people weren’t just allowed to build their homes wherever they might like. The alderman oversaw where people could build, and ensured that the correct deeds and land holdings were either drawn up or procured in order for the place to be built. Armie owned most of the land around here, with pockets of it having been given away to various families over the years, but it was imperative that everything was done on a firm legal footing. Paper was the only trail that would exist years into the future, when it was decided by their sons, and the sons of their sons, as to who would own what.

A few moments later and they passed under the gate, the gate guard bowing as they passed, and the thick walls looming over their head. They passed under where the portcullis would come down, before heading towards the inner gate of the castle and the keep. The town was bustling full of merchants and craftsmen going about their business. They turned down the baker’s street, the smell of the morning’s bread still lingering on the air. Now they were touting pies and the like from their open shop windows, things for pages and apprentices to eat on the go as they hurried about their work; running errands for their masters. At the top of baker street, they turned up past the blacksmiths and armourers, before coming to the castle moat, drawbridge and gate. The drawbridge was down, allowing the easy crossing of the deep ditch below. Armie noticed that there was no water in the ditch, and made a note in his mind to ask about this once they had settled. They approached the heavy castle gate on the other side of the bridge; this one too was open, but there were further guards stood posted either side. They stood up straight and to attention as they saw them approach; their raggedy band of three, worse the wear for months of war and then weeks of travel. As they passed under the gate, another guard hurried forward into the courtyard.

‘The Lord of the Keep returns!’ he bellowed out. Armie reigned in Helios, and looked at the view in front of him, his heart soaring as he viewed his home. The battlements in red sandstone forming the curtain wall around the vast keep that rose in four storeys in front of him. It was an overbearing blocky mass that dominated the sky for miles around, but it was his home, and he was very glad to see it again. In front of the keep, having hurried down the steep steps to greet them when Matthews’ had arrived to tell them of his impending arrival, was a group of people he had longed to see for months on end. He swung himself down from his saddle, a broad grin on his face, and hurried to meet his sister, who was standing at the head of the column. She dipped her head and curtsied.

‘My Lord brother,’ she intoned, keeping her eyes respectfully on his feet.

‘Annie,’ he said, lifting her head, and then took her into his arms and embraced her, ‘It is so good to see you again sister!’

She smiled widely and returned the embrace, ‘The same to you, dear brother. It has been too long.’

He stepped back a moment later and quickly greeted the others in the line; his steward, his chamberlain, his master of horse, and several of the squires who had tumbled from their duties to greet him.

‘Your rooms are waiting for you my Lord,’ said his steward when he stepped back, ‘I will have hot water brought up as well, and cook is preparing a late day meal for you and your party.’

‘Thank you, Dunstan,’ he said with a smile, ‘See that Henry and Matthews are well fed and housed as well, before they come to me for dispatch.’

‘Yes My Lord,’ said Dunstan, with a short bow. The steward hesitated for a moment, causing Armie to pause in front of him.

‘What is it Dunstan?’ he asked.

The man looked over his shoulder, to where he had left the horses; stable boys having hurried forward to take the bridles of the three horses.

‘What of the other?’ asked Dunstan, his voice slightly nervous.

Armie looked back, and motioned Timothée forward. The Frenchman slid off his horse and came forward, standing back slightly from Armie and the welcome party. He stood tall, his head raised and his chin high and proud, refusing to let his status as prisoner be seen in the way he was standing.

Armie gestured to him before turning back to the courtyard, ‘This here is Timothée Chalamet-Aubert, son of the Marquis de Bretagne!’

There was silence following the loud announcement, so he continued, ‘He was taken by me from the the field of battle in France, and he is here as my honourable prisoner. He will be treated with the respect of any other guest whilst he remains in this castle. This is my order, as Lord of the Castle, and you shall see it done.’

He turned back to Dunstan, ‘In the meantime, you will show Timothée to his room which I ordered prepared, and tell him to await me there.’

The steward bowed, ‘My Lord.’

Armie turned then to his chamberlain, Jennings, ‘Come, let us go up. I am in desperate need of a bath.’

Unable to hide his smile, his chamberlain nodded, ‘Just so my Lord, this way.’

**

An hour later and he was lying in warm water; a linen sheet protecting his skin from the rough wooden surface of the tub. Near his left hand was a plate of this morning’s fresh bread, and some cheese from the local dairy, to fill the hungry gap in his stomach until the main meal in a few hours’ time. He could feel his muscles unbunching one by one as he lay in the water; the grime and the filth of over a week of hard travel washing away. His hair was damp, as he’d washed that at the beginning of his soak – before the water became dirty and he did not wish to do so. It felt so good to feel clean again. He knew that some of his servants thought him odd that he bathed so often, considering that they probably managed it once every couple of months if they were lucky, but he felt much clearer headed and also healthier when he was clean. His excuse was that his training from his days as a squire still held true, when they had bathed once a week or more. He also knew that the maids didn’t particularly like having to lump buckets of hot water up to his chambers from the kitchen, many floors below. But, as his chamberlain had once said when he’d voiced these concerns – before he was Lord of the keep, mind – that that was their job, so they could grumble all they liked. Armie still wasn’t entirely happy with that explanation, however, and made sure to thank the maids when he could for the work they undertook. He’d made one girl practically faint with fright when he’d spoken to her directly.

He idly considered that he should probably get out of the water, as it was now heading firmly toward lukewarm, and a glance at his fingertips showed him that they were fast becoming white and wrinkly. He vaguely wondered why the skin on his fingers and toes did this when he’d been in water for a long period of time, but not coming up with any particular ideas, he dismissed the thought. He grabbed the cloth and gave himself one last rub all over his body, being sure to pay attention to the creases and hidden places especially; his armpits, where his arse met his thigh, the gaps between his toes, and other such hard to reach places, before he stood up and held out his arm towards his serving man, who stood by the door, waiting dutifully. The man hurried forward with a much larger piece of linen, and Armie wrapped himself in it against the chill, before climbing out of the tub and into the court slippers that had been laid out. He immediately gravitated towards the fire that was roaring in the hearth to stay warm. It might be late summer; but the cold walls of the castle held no warmth within the stone, and it was only standing by the hearth did he feel the grateful heat of the fire.

His mind turned to all the things that he needed to do before he could rest this evening. Now that he had cleaned himself and would soon be dressed, it was time to think once again of matters at hand. First, he needed to visit Timothée, in his room situated near here. It was imperative that he kept to his word and saw that his prisoner was housed comfortably. Second, he would go to the chapel and visit his brother’s tomb. Not only because it was the right thing to do, but also because he wanted to pay his respects and say goodbye. The last time he had seen Edward he had been sure that he would see him again, and now he was gone from this world, not to be seen again until they were reunited in God’s kingdom, on whatever fateful day that might be. Finally, he would be in the hall, to debrief the men who had travelled with him, and also to begin to catch up on news and business, both formal and informal. At the outset, he would turn to his sister, Annie, for the most up to date information. She might not be involved in the politics of the area, but there was no doubt that she knew absolutely everything that was going on, as soon as it happened, sometimes even before.

He shifted slightly as his man began to dress him; breeches, then his under-shirt, then surcoat in black velvet. It was finished by a leather belt with silver detailing running through the material. It was simple, yet clearly expensive. A lord of his standing was expected wear things of a certain standard when appearing in his hall, and he would not diminish the family name by appearing as anything less.

Once he was dressed he thanked the servant, asking that he would see to it that a warming pan was placed between his sheets before he retired, and that the fire was attended to so that room maintained some modicum of warmth. He also enquired whether his bedclothes had been beaten at all since they had been vacant, and he had been assured they had. There was still something odd to him about sleeping in the bed that, in all likelihood, both his brother and his father had died in. He at least wanted to ensure that the bedclothes had been thoroughly cleaned since then. He was assured that linens had been hand scrubbed twice, as well as the tapestry hangings being beaten and repaired before being resituated on the bed. Satisfied with this he nodded, and made a mental note to thank his sister for thinking of this. She was surely the one who had considered his fastidiousness and seen it done before he returned.

Once fully dressed and with his short dagger-cum-eating knife sheathed in his belt, he left his rooms and turned along the cold corridor towards Timothée’s room. As he’d stipulated, it was only a door away from his. There was a guard stood outside.

‘Would you like me to unlock the door my Lord?’ the guard asked as he stopped.

‘It’s locked?’ he questioned, ‘Who told you to lock it?’

The guard looked a little confused, ‘the master chamberlain assumed that -,’

‘Don’t assume,’ said Armie, ‘Give me the key, and then you’re free to return to your other duties.’

The guard nodded, handing him the key, ‘Yes my Lord, my apologies my Lord.’

‘No apology necessary soldier, about your business,’ said Armie, nodding. The guard gave a curt bow and then turned away; hobnail boots clicked on the stone floor as he went.

Armie turned back to the door and slid the heavy key into the lock, before turning it with a thunk, and pushing the door open. His face immediately fell into a deep frown at what he saw inside; or rather what he didn’t see. It was nearly pitch dark inside, the only light coming in through the tiniest of windows that normally had a tapestry hanging over it to keep out the chill from the thin glass pane. He peered into the gloom and spotted Timothée, sitting up on the plain counterpane after he’d heard the door, with another of the bed linens pulled tight about his shoulders in order to ward off the chill. It was _cold_ in here, and the air was musty.

Armie made a brief growl in the back of his throat before he turned on heel and poked his head out into the empty corridor; ‘Dunstan!’ he bellowed. He didn’t need to yell again. He knew that either the steward would have heard him, or someone else would have and gone running hell for leather to fetch the steward. He didn’t have to wait long. A minute or so later, the steward appeared, a little red in the face for having come up several flights of steep stairs in a hurry.

‘Yes, my Lord?’ he asked, coming to a halt in front of Armie in the corridor.

‘What is this?’ hissed Armie, gesturing inside to the dark room.

‘The prisoner’s room, my Lord?’ asked the steward, sounding genuinely confused, ‘Do you wish for him to be moved; is this not the room you intended for him to have use of -,’

‘Don’t be thick-headed man,’ Armie interrupted bluntly, causing the steward to blanch slightly, ‘At what point did my orders of “he will be treated with the respect of any other guest” not get through?’

‘Of course, my Lord,’ said Dunstan, ‘I’m sorry. We just assumed that –,’

‘I’m hearing a lot about what was assumed or not assumed recently,’ Armie interrupted again, ‘If in doubt about my orders, then simply ask what I wish to be done. Do not let me find them so woefully fallen short, which then gives me cause to be angry.’

‘Yes my Lord,’ said Dunstan, looking at the floor, ‘What do you wish for us to do?’

Armie glanced into the room, seeing that his prisoner had not moved from atop the counterpane. He could see the vaguest sliver of white of his eyes, reflected in the meagre light coming through the window. He could just make out that the slighter man was shivering. He made a quick mental list of the everything that would need attending to before he was close to being satisfied.

‘Firstly, get a fire going in the hearth, and stoke it up. It is damp in here, and therefore unhealthy. I want a bath tub brought up along with linens, hot water to bathe, something to eat, and fresh clothes as he has none – I believe some of William’s clothes may fit him, although they may be a trifle long in the leg. I want extra candles brought up as well; the ones in here look like they’ve seen better days. When we quit the room for supper, I want the bed linens beaten. That will suffice before they can be replaced…,’ he thought about it for a moment, ‘I believe that that is enough to be going on with. Thank you, Dunstan. Tell Jennings that I expect fresh rushes to be procured for under the bed at the earliest possible moment, as well as fresh bed linens, although I do not expect this to be achieved today.’

‘My Lord,’ said the steward, giving a bow, before turning to see those orders carried out.

‘Oh, Dunstan!’ called Armie before the steward disappeared from view. The man turned back, waiting to hear whatever else may be asked, ‘See that Matthews and Henry are afforded the opportunity to bathe before dinner as well. A tub in the kitchens next to the fire will have to suffice, but I’m sure they won’t mind that.’

The steward didn’t speak, but merely bowed in understanding of the order, before disappearing down the corridor and towards the stairwell.

Armie turned back when he heard the small sound of a murmured, ‘Thank you,’ from behind him. He didn’t acknowledge it, other than with a curt nod that would probably be visible in the light coming from the doorway where he was still stood. He stepped out of the way a few minutes later as two of the kitchen boys came up the stairs carrying a huge woollen sack full to the brim of logs for the fire between them, panting under the weight of it. One of them looked up at him nervously from under the brim of his cap, as if he was expecting a cuff, just purely out of him being in sight and within arms-reach. He knew that some of his men-at-arms mistreated the serving boys and stable hands, giving them a good wallop whenever they could find cause, but he would never be that type of master. The higher-ranking members of his household knew that if he saw them administer unjust punishment to any within his eyeshot, then they would be the ones who would find themselves on the wrong end of a switch or the pillory. It worked, for the most part, although judging by the nervous look in the boy’s eyes, he would have to reiterate his words on just and unjust punishments in his castle. He would not have the people who worked here be unduly afraid.

He stood by as he watched them build up the fire and begin to get it going, light immediately beginning to penetrate the gloom of the dark bedroom. It would be sometime before the flames were hearty enough for any warmth to be felt from the large grate, but at least some light on the situation was a promising start. He made his way over to the carved chair next to the fireplace to sit and oversee the rest of the proceedings. It was clear that he was going to have to be a little more explicit and a little more hands-on with his orders, at least to begin with, until the servants and other residents in the castle got used to the way that he wanted, nay, _expected_ , things to be done whilst he was in charge here. It was going to be a bit of shock to them, as any change in leadership was, but, he surmised, most of them had done it before when his father had died and his brother had taken over. They’d get used to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes
> 
> 1\. Armie's domain/lands are made up. I have carved out a space for him in an area that was probably split between the Church (Furness Abbey & Lanercost Priory are fairly close by), the Percy family of Northumberland, and the Nevilles who had castle in Penrith, about 40 miles south. I've most definitely made up this lordly title, and the holding which goes with it.  
> 2\. Carlisle castle is an imposing keep made of red sandstone brick. I visited it a few weeks ago!  
> 3\. An alderman of a town oversaw everything to do with the guilds and the general welfare of the town, problems that didn't directly involve the lord or the church were brought to him to try and solve. It was usually an elected position and held a lot of prestige.  
> 4\. Often streets got their names from the professions that could be found there... 'Baker Street', 'Cook Street', 'Swinegate' (and the particularly great 'Gropecunt Lane' in London, which has sadly now been renamed for proprieties sake... *eye roll*)  
> 5\. A Chamberlain and a steward are fairly similar roles, although you would usually only find a chamberlain in the great households of the medieval world. In this story Jennings, the Chamberlain, will be above the steward, and the overseer of the entire household. The steward is more concerned with the lords family, his rooms, and his guests.  
> 6\. Glass windows were a thing in the mid-fourteenth century, but they were _enormously_ expensive, so any glass windows that were had at the time would be very small. Many rooms (especially bedrooms and retiring rooms) didn't have windows, as with no glass and only shutters, it would have been very cold, especially in England.
> 
> Ummm... I think that's it. If there's anything else - let me know!
> 
> V  
> xxx


	9. A Gilded Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timothee's thoughts on arriving the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, 
> 
> Hope you're all having a good week! This is the last week before I go back to work, so the thing about updates probably applies from now, unless I am on a particular writing frenzy. 
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts on this story. Comments are like crack to authors, and knowing what you think is means the absolutely world to me! 
> 
> V  
> xxx

He was more than slightly taken aback when within half an hour of Armie appearing in the room and beginning to bark orders, that a bath, some food (which he had practically inhaled to appease the growling of his stomach), and some clean clothes for him to wear appeared in short order. He stripped to his skin before stepping into the warm water, his dirty clothes piling onto the floor, instantly feeling blessed relief as it washed over him. Since he had been taken from the field he had only had the opportunity to wash once; in a freezing cold stream somewhere further south. So to have the luxury of an actual _bath_ was beyond his wildest imagination. He been told by the men in his company that Englishmen never bathed. Apparently that wasn’t true. He felt the grime leaving his skin as he scrubbed away at himself, extending his long limbs to rub at them with the cloth. Some lye soap had also been provided. It wasn’t the scented beeswax that he might get at home, but it was a hell of a lot better than having none at all. Armie was now standing by the hearth, having moved there from the chair a short while ago. Timothée’s eyes flicked up towards him as he scrubbed at a particularly stubborn bit of dirt on the underside of his arm.

‘Are you waiting for me?’ he asked, ‘You don’t have to stay in here, if you have things to do.’

‘I know,’ said Armie with a shrug, ‘But once you are finished I will take you down to the hall before dinner is served, seeing as you do not know the way.’

Timothée nodded, that much was true enough. Having said that, this castle wasn’t that big, so he would probably learn his way soon enough. All he knew at the moment was that both this room and Armie’s room were on the top floor, so he assumed that the rest of the family suite was as well, including the sister who he had briefly glimpsed when they were outside. She had had dark blonde hair, like her brother, but other than that he hadn’t really seen much else. He had managed to stand on the tips of his toes to peer out of the high window in the wall of the room, and could see countryside sweeping away for miles around, distorted by the uneven surface of the glass. He’d seen it of course, riding into the town, it was quite beautiful. He wondered if he’d have the opportunity to explore outside the walls of the keep at all. He could be here for years, the idea of being stuck in here for years nearly drove him to despair.

‘I’m going to assign a serving boy to you,’ said Armie after a minute, ‘To attend you during the day. You’ll have to see to yourself at night and getting dressed -,’

‘I can manage,’ Timothée interjected.

‘- your room will remain unlocked, unless you give me cause to have it otherwise,’ continued Armie, ‘I have the key to the room, so I will decide if that privilege remains.’

‘Even at night?’ said Timothée, surprised. After the escape attempt he had pulled before they left France, he was taken aback that Armie was giving him this.

‘Only the main door to the keep remains open at night, with a section of guards outside the door,’ said Armie steadily, ‘So even if you do go for night time wanderings in the keep, you won’t get very far.’

Despite his measured tone, Timothée could still hear the warning in his words; _don’t try it, otherwise I really will lock you in_. In contradiction to outwards appearances, however, he had no desire to attempt another rash escape. He had no money, and no way of knowing how to even begin finding his way home. To throw himself to the mercy of the elements and brigands outside of this castle and town would just be asking for an early grave. No, it would be far better to wait, to see when, and if, an opportunity might present itself.

They were the only two in the room at that moment so he had no choice but to ask Armie to pass him the large linen cloth with which to dry himself off, a mumbled apology following shortly after. Armie just waved it away with a large hand.

‘I had Dunstan find you some clothes,’ said Armie as he got dry, ‘They belong to my younger brother William. They’re the clothes he didn’t take with him when he went to squire for the Earl of Essex. I expected to see him when I returned, but he left before –,’ Armie stopped himself, ‘Anyway - they should fit you alright, until we can have some made for you.’

‘You’ll do that?’ asked Timothée looking up, surprised.

Armie half-smiled on one side of his face, ‘Well, you’re probably going to be here for a while. You’re going to need some clothes other than the ones you’re standing up in.’

Timothée nodded, ‘That’s very kind of you.’ Armie shrugged, and Timothée thought he saw a little of a blush gracing his cheeks.

‘I can sew my own shirts,’ he offered, ‘If you provide me with the materials.’

Armie’s eyebrows rose in surprise, ‘You know how to do that?’

‘Yes,’ he said with a shrug, ‘When my mother and siblings were ill, we spent a lot of time shut up indoors. I learnt how to make shirts in that time. Well, that was one of the things I learnt. It passed the time somewhat.’

Armie looked vaguely impressed, ‘I can mend my clothes in a pinch, on the battlefield etc. to make sure they won’t completely fall apart until I get them to a tailor… but to make them from scratch? That’s a useful skill.’

Now it was Timmy’s turn to be embarrassed, made more acute by the fact that he was still standing there in just the linen cloth, the gooseflesh on his shoulders and neck risen against the cold. He hastily turned to the clothes laid out on the bed and began to get dressed, aware of Armie watching him as he pulled the shirt over his head. Armie had been right; they did fit, mostly. The undershirt sleeves were a little long, so he rolled them back once at the cuffs so they sat on his wrist bone, rather than over his fingers. They were relatively plain, apart from the fact the surcoat and breeches were dyed a deep forest green. The trueness of the colour would be difficult for anyone of moderate means to achieve, as it would take several treatments of the fabric to get the colour this rich.

‘They seem to be alright, don’t they?’ said Armie looking at him.

‘A little tight across the shoulders,’ said Timothée, ‘But other than that they’re fine. Thank you.’

‘Alright, are you ready to go down to the hall?’ asked Armie.

Timothée shifted uncomfortably as he nodded, ‘Thank you for being so kind to me. It’s not quite what I expected.’

Armie turned to go, ‘Come on.’

He took a few steps before speaking again, causing Timothée to hurry to catch up and be able to hear him; ‘I said I would treat you as a guest, unless you give me reason not to, and I truly meant it.’

Timothée didn’t reply, feeling it probably wasn’t required, and quietly followed Armie out of the room.

**

The hall was on the first floor of the keep, with a huge fire going in the grate at the end. Food such as bread, pies, some of the first apples from the orchard, and some jugs of beer were laid out on the tables. The meat was probably still being finished off in the kitchen. Timothée saw Armie’s stride break for the smallest moment as he looked at the ornately carved chair at the head of the table. Clearly this had been the chair that he’d seen his father and his brother sit in many times, and now found it slightly odd that he himself would be the one to sit there. The hesitancy was only visible for slightest of moments before he strode forwards, and sat down. Timothée hesitated just in front of the top table, unsure as to where he would be welcome to sit.

‘Sit here,’ said Armie, gesturing to the second seat down on his left. There was an empty seat left between him and Armie, which he assumed was for his sister when she appeared in the hall. Timothée sat down gingerly at the table, looking nervously around, unsure as to whether he was allowed to help himself to the wine, as Armie did a few moments after sitting down.

There were some others in the hall, sitting on one of the two tables that stretched down perpendicular to the top table. They weren’t paying much attention to what was going on, however, and continued with their conversation. By the looks of them it seemed that they might work in the castle armoury; they had blackened hands, and grimy necks, suggesting somewhere hot and smoky was their main place of work. Work in the castle was a sought-after position, as food and a place to sleep were guaranteed.

A moment later and two men came in the door at the end of the hall. Timothée recognised them both as Matthews and Henry. He avoided Matthews’ eye as the squire strode up to the top table and made a short bow to Armie. He didn’t miss the slight sneer on his face, however, as he noticed him sitting there. Henry smiled at him, however, and he managed to weakly return it.

‘Come, sit,’ Armie invited them a second later, gesturing to two places on his right-hand side. Timothée noticed that Henry took the seat directly next to Armie, and Matthews the one second along. This was possibly because Henry was the older of the two men, as he wasn’t aware that there was any particular difference in rank between them. A general soldier and the Lord’s squire would probably rank fairly equally. In fact, it was probably a rarity that either of them got to sit at the top table at all – they were only there by grace of being part of the Lord’s party that day.

Matthews immediately grabbed for a pie of some sort in front of him, probably a pork pie. Armie looked at him, but didn’t stop him.

‘They’ll be meat coming up from the kitchen in a moment,’ was all he said. Matthews shrugged but didn’t stop. Timothée assumed that manners weren’t part of learning to be a squire, or perhaps Matthews was a particularly poor student of that subject.

They all stood up a moment later when the Lady Anne swept into the hall, with a lady in waiting in tow. She took the vacant seat next to him, looking across and giving him a brief nod. He took that to at least mean acquiescence of his presence at the table. Her ladies’ maid took the seat on his other side, giving him a swift smile before she schooled her face back into a passively demure look. He couldn’t help but let the briefest smile slide across his face in response.

‘Armand,’ she said to her brother, smiling at him, before reaching for the jug in front of her. It didn’t hold beer as he’d first suspected, but wine. He wondered whether it tasted as good as the wine at home. He assumed not; he’d always been told that French wine was superior, and he no reason to doubt that information.

‘Would you like some?’ she asked, turning to him. She was speaking English, and he didn’t understand what she said to him but she gestured to the jug when she spoke, so he assumed that she was asking him whether he wanted any. He was taken aback at being addressed directly by the Lady Anne, so it took him a moment to answer her, but then he nodded and watched as she poured him a cup of the liquid.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Timothée doesn’t speak English, Annie,’ said Armie from her other side, in French.

‘Well, he will have to learn, won’t he?’ she responded, in perfect French of her own.

He couldn’t help but smile at her swift riposte to her brother. Clearly, they were close, and Armie didn’t mind his younger sister being a little sarcastic with him. He looked up as two serving boys came into the room, carrying a huge haunch of roast pork. They put it down in front of Armie for him to take the first slices of the prime meat. He didn’t take it for himself, however, and passed it to his sister, before taking his own. It was then for the serving boys to cut away at the haunch to serve the rest of the people on the top table. Timothée was served last.

Despite the bread and cheese that he had eaten earlier, he was still really hungry, and the growl his stomach gave as the warm meat and slab of bread was put in front of him did nothing to hide that fact. The maid next to him let out a little giggle at the audible growl. After everyone on the top table had received their share, Armie sent food down to the other tables for whoever was in the hall. More people had gathered now that the meat had been served, and Timothée tried to guess what their role was within the castle. He identified what he thought were the groomsmen, and some of the guards who were clearly off duty. The steward and the chamberlain had taken their seats at the top of the perpendicular table and were talking to someone who looked like one of the house mistresses.

‘So, you were French army?’ said the maid next to him, ‘Sorry, I learning French from Lady Anne.’

‘It’s good,’ said Timothée kindly to her, ‘You speak French far better than I speak English. Yes, I was in the French army, under King Philip IV.’

‘I learning for a year,’ she said, bolstered by his willingness to listen to her broken French, ‘Lady Anne says to help my position.’

‘Maybe I could teach you,’ he said.

She looked demurely down at her plate, ‘I am not the Lady Anne like that.’

He assumed that she meant that she wasn’t sure whether the Lady Anne would like it if he taught her, rather than that she literally wasn’t the Lady Anne.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said, ‘I am a prisoner, after all.’

He looked back down at his plate and continued to eat, thinking about what he’d just said. He _was_ a prisoner, and he would do well to remember it. No matter how well Armie treated him, or whether he was allowed to sit at the top table or not; he was still a prisoner. He was not able to go where he wanted, and he definitely was not free to return home. There was a sharp slice of pain in his chest when he thought about home. His father wouldn’t have got his letter yet, and it might be several weeks more until it got there. He probably still thought that he was riding with the army; in retreat, but not held captive in England.

He looked around at the stone walls of the castle; it was big, and the walls were tall. But it was a cage. A gilded cage perhaps; with warm baths and plenty of food, but that didn’t change his status as a prisoner. The bars might be around the perimeter of the castle, rather than a jail cell, but they were still there. He needed to not forget that.


	10. Finding A Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘Oh, trust me,’ said Armie with an a small grin, ‘This isn’t supposed to be entertaining. It’s meant to make you useful. Whilst you’re here you will have work to do, just like everybody else.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I hope you've all had a good week, and that you're staying happy and healthy in these crazy times!
> 
> Big thank you this week to LostCol for helping me on a short history of clocks! I found myself floundering on when clocks were invented, and if Armie might have known anything about them, but then they swoop in and tell me they were invented in the early 1300s, so there we go! Whilst I've also tried to keep language relatively formal, I decided that I would use contractions because it would just be clunky if I didn't. I've tried to keep phrases to things that they would know, for example not saying things like "speed of light" etc... if you spot anything glaringly obvious, then let me know!
> 
> Also I know this story is very slow burn, but I hope the world-building is holding your interest as the story moves forward. It was never supposed to be a straight up romance, but I hope that's okay with you. :)
> 
> Let me know what you think, your comments and thoughts mean the world to me and keep me inspired when writing. <3 
> 
> V  
> xxxx

The following day dawned cold and bright, but the castle was already a hive of activity. Armie yawned heavily, waking the serving boy that slept in a pallet next to his bed. The boy instantly leapt to his feet and began stoking the fire in the hearth to get it going again, before fetching Armie’s slippers and robe. It took him a few moments to wake his bones from the slumber that he had been in. Part of him wanted to rest his weary body some more, to stay in the warmth for longer, but he knew he had to get back into the rhythm of life in the castle after being away for so many months. The place was chaotic, smelly, disorganised, and everybody seemed to want a piece of his attention, even in the handful of moments that he had been back. In the two months or so since Edward’s death they had been guessing his intentions, or asking the Lady Anne, but now he was back, everybody wanted to know for sure how they should proceed, in case they were doing something that might provoke his ire. He didn’t mind making decisions; he’d been doing it since he was a boy. Even being the Lord’s second son came with a level of responsibility, and people wanted to know his opinion and his decisions. Back then he had to imagine what his father or his older brother might want in that particular incidence.

Of course, now he didn’t answer to anyone, and he was at the top of the decision-making chain; everything stopped with him. Before he completely took up that mantle, however, he needed to do one final thing. It was still very early, but he wasn’t the first one about by any means, some of the maids and serving boys were already awake, and a smell of fresh bread was permeating the ground floor. His stomach grumbled, but that wasn’t where he was going right now. He entered the chapel quietly, and walked up the right side of the aisle to where a new tomb had been added since he’d last been within its walls. There was no effigy as yet on the top, as the master stonemason had yet to finish the work, but the name and dates of life had already been added. 

‘Hello Eddie,’ he said kneeling down on the cold flagstones beside the tomb. He placed his hand on the stone in front of him, and whispered a prayer, hoping that God would be merciful on his brother. He wondered whether his brother had been directly admitted through St Peter’s gate, or if the Lord had deigned that he must wait for a time in purgatory to cleanse his soul before entry into the eternal kingdom.

‘I never expected this to happen when we were children,’ he murmured a moment later, ‘You were always supposed to be the Lord, have heirs, pass on the title, and leave me out of it. But then you got sick, father was gone, so was mother… and suddenly this became a new reality for me. It was going to be mine once you passed, and now… it is. I mean, I didn’t expect it to happen so fast.’

Silence reigned as the cold unanswering stone stretched out from his palms, into the cold walls of the church. He’d always wondered why churches had to be so cold and uninviting, maybe it was to make people fear the God they were supposed to be worshipping. Or maybe people were more honest when they were uncomfortable.

‘Everybody wants to know what I think about everything. But I haven’t a clue where to even start. I haven’t even been at the castle for many months in the past years. I don’t know how to do this Eddie…’ he whispered, ‘I wasn’t trained for this. I was trained to be a soldier… not a Lord.’

Silence reigned.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but it was broken before he had a chance to form the words.

‘God will show you the way, my son.’

Armie jumped, his hand going to where his sword usually hung at his belt, but of course it wasn’t there. He wouldn’t carry steel into the House of God. At least not the house in his own keep. There wasn’t any need to carry it here. Of course, there was no need for him to jump, it was just the priest, standing next to the altar, robed and barefoot. Armie hadn’t expected anyone to be here this early, but perhaps the priest had decided to come to light the candles for this morning’s service.

‘Father, I didn’t see you there,’ he said, rising from his knees and turning to face the priest.

‘I was doing penance last night, so I did not leave,’ said the priest with a small smile.

‘What would you have to do penance for?’ he said, trying to imagine what sins a priest could possibly commit. Compared to his own, he imagined that they were few.

‘Ah, there are many reasons why one might feel the need conversing with one’s God in humility,’ said the priest, holding out his hands with a shrug, ‘Is there anything you need my son?’

He found it jarring to be called ‘son’ by the priest. Everyone else called him my Lord, and that brought a level of responsibility that weighed heavy upon him. Father McEnery had known him since he was a child, so even though he was now the Lord, there would always be that shared past and tutorship that the old priest had held over him for many years. It felt nice to have that responsibility shift, even if it was just for a moment.

‘I don’t think so father,’ he said, ‘But thank you for thinking of me. My new situation is strange to me, and I hoped to find some kind of peace here.’

‘You can always find peace in God’s house,’ said Father McEnery, ‘Come back to me if there is anything you think that I could aid you with.’

‘Thank you, father,’ said Armie, nodding and then dithered slightly on the spot, ‘I should go. I have things to attend to.’

‘Of course,’ said the priest, with a small bow.

Armie turned and left, stepping out into the weak morning sunlight. It was going to be a fine early autumn day, with a cool nip in the air. He wondered where on his ever-growing list of things he needed to attend to that he should start. His thoughts strayed to Timothée, assumedly still asleep in the room that he had organised for him. Hopefully he had found some solace in his sleep. The man had looked sad as he had left the hall last night, as if he could feel the walls closing in around him. Armie knew that he would have to help him find a place here, for the time that he was here. He would have to find something for the man to do; he couldn’t just sit in the keep for months on end. Everyone else had a role to play in the running of the keep; except him, and that wouldn’t do.

He thought about the clock that his father had bought for the room where he kept all of his papers. It had been an amazing novelty to him when he had been a child, watching the cogs turn seamlessly against each other to make the mechanism on the front keep turning, showing the day as it slowly slid past. It had been enormously expensive when his father had ordered it from a visiting Italian merchant, and his mother had nearly had kittens when he’d told her the price. When she saw it, however, she too was won over by its intricate beauty, and had spent many moments staring at it, just like the rest of them. He too had stood for hours, watching the steady movement of the pieces and the tick, tick, tick of the hands on the clock face. Then his father had taken it upon himself to sketch out the mechanism; to draw where each piece went and how it all fit together. He said he wanted to know how it worked. Then he took it apart. His mother had been absolutely scandalised that he had “broken” such an expensive piece, but he’d assured her that he was going to put it back together. It had taken him months to do it, when at first he thought it would be easy because of how he’d sketched it. Armie remembered helping him when he was free; watching him place the cogs into the mechanism, and hoping that _this time_ , they would sit right and begin to turn. He recalled the whoop of joy his father had let out when he’d finally got it working again. It had been so exuberant that several of the servants had come running to see what the noise was about.

A small smile slipped across Armie’s face as he remembered those days of his childhood. He had been happy then, and without many of the cares that plagued him now. Back then he’d had a confidante in his older brother, but now who did he have to turn to? There was Annie of course, but she too would soon be gone. As soon as the King returned from campaign, bringing the second son of the Lord Somerset back with him, Annie was to be wed, travelling away to the south. At twenty-three she was more than ready to leave the castle where she grew up and make a household of her own. Of course, no-one yet knew when the King would return, although Armie did know that his sister prayed daily for her betrothed’s safe return. Unlike many arranged marriages, the pair had actually had the fortune to meet a handful of times, and Annie had found him both pleasing in temperate, and in looks. Not that either of those things particularly mattered, Armie thought. The match had been organised when their father was still alive, and he wouldn’t have cared if the man had looked like the hind end of the donkey. It was useful strategic match then, and remained so to this day.

His thoughts had given him time, and had led him to the door of his prisoner’s chambers; up the winding stone staircase and along the dimly lit corridor. He stopped outside for a moment, wondering if he should knock, but then he realised that this was his castle, of course he didn’t need to knock. For the briefest second, he wondered if he would find Timothée still abed. He opened the door and walked inside.

Timothée was sitting on the chair beside the hearth, examining his hands, clearly waiting for someone to either fetch him or berate him. The fire was still going in the grate, and a serving boy was currently stripping the bed linens away in order to replace them with the fresh ones that Jennings was due to procure at the soonest possible moment.

‘Armand,’ he said looking up, ‘Good Morning.’

‘Good Morning Timothée,’ he said, as the younger man stood up out of the chair, ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘The bed is very comfortable,’ said Timothée.

‘I’m glad,’ said Armie, ‘Have you eaten?’

‘Not as yet,’ he said.

‘Alright,’ said Armie, ‘I’ll take you down to the hall, as I haven’t eaten yet either. For future reference, you can go down to the hall yourself; you’re welcome to freedom of the keep.’

Timothée nodded, looking a little reserved at the thought.

‘What is it?’ asked Armie.

Timothée shrugged, ‘I just feel I might not be overly welcome outside of this room when I not in your company.’

Armie understood this concern, he did. He knew that Timothée was the outsider here, and that he would feel that way for some time. It didn’t help that he didn’t speak the language of most of the lay people around here. Until he learnt to speak English, the only people he would be able to converse with were himself, his sister, and some of the more educated members of his servant class. It wasn’t exactly conducive to feeling more at home in the castle. Not that this was his home; it wasn’t.

‘If anyone treats you with anything less than total respect, then you come to me. I won’t have that as direct disobedience to my orders,’ said Armie.

‘Hmmm,’ Timothée nodded, but Armie could see by the look on his face that he wasn’t convinced.

‘I have a task for you after we have eaten,’ said Armie, ‘One I think that you might like.’

Timothée looked at him before saying flatly, ‘You don’t need to entertain me.’

‘Oh, trust me,’ said Armie with an a small grin, ‘This isn’t supposed to be entertaining. It’s meant to make you useful. Whilst you’re here you will have work to do, just like everybody else.’

**

‘This was my father’s record room, and grandfathers before him,’ said Armie gesturing around. Timothée’s mouth fell open as he took in what could only be described as the enormous amount of chaos in front of him. Armie couldn’t help but chuckle as he took in the expression on his face.

‘I know,’ he said, ‘My brother kept all of his records in his head or in Jennings’ – the Lord only knows how he did it. Unfortunately, that’s not going to work for me. My mind simply doesn’t work that way, and even if it could hold the information about the running of the keep within it, it certainly doesn’t have the capacity to hold all the information about the running of the estate in there as well. This is where all that difference in training comes in I suppose. Edward had a head for figures, but I am going to need to take some time to get used to it.’

‘And this is where that needs to start,’ said Timothée, looking around at the piles of paper, rolls, the odd leather bound book. And each and every one of them was covered in at least an inch of dust. Their entry into the room and caused the dust to shift, spiralling in the dim light coming in through one of the high windows, and Armie sneezed loudly. Timothée chuckled.

‘So,’ said Armie regaining his composure, ‘I want you to sort this room out for me. So that I know where to begin when I need information about the estate. You read Latin, yes?’

‘Yes,’ Timothée confirmed, ‘And Greek.’

‘Well I don’t think you’ll find any Greek here, or at least I’d be surprised if you did,’ said Armie, ‘Just plenty Latin and French. My grandfather’s scribe preferred to keep his records in Latin, whereas my father’s scribe preferred French.’

‘Well I guess I’ll be able to figure out how old the documents are,’ said Timothée stepping further into the room and putting his hand on one of the piles of papers. He picked up the top sheaf of parchment, and squinted. The hand was cramped and difficult to read, ‘What would you have me do?’

‘Well I want you to organise this room, but some of the records will be nearly illegible. I’ll need you to try and copy those out where you can. Other than that I’ll need to go through them and come up with some kind of system, so that from now on we know where records are when we need them,’ said Armie.

Timothée looked around at the piles of paper and mess before breathing out through his teeth, ‘That’s going to take a while.’

‘Well,’ said Armie with a half-apologetic shrug, ‘You’re not going anywhere fast.’

‘That’s true enough,’ said Timothée.

Just then a young boy tumbled in through the door, pulling up short when he realised that Armie was standing just inside the door.

‘Oh, sorry my Lord, I didn’t realise you were in here,’ he gabbled whilst giving a short bow, ‘Dunstan sent me to look for the Frenchman.’

‘Your charge has a name,’ said Armie with a frown, ‘His name is Timothée. But until he allows you to address him as such, you will call him ‘My Lord’ as well.’

‘Timothée will suit just fine,’ said Timothée from behind him, causing the boy to look up from his feet surprised at being addressed.

Armie translated Timothée’s words into English for the serving boy.

‘You’re in luck,’ said Armie to the boy, ‘He doesn’t seem to mind about your insubordination.’

The boy mouthed the word, trying to decide what it meant. Armie shook his head, deciding that it was probably easier to let it go than to teach the boy the meaning of the word.

‘Go,’ he said, ‘Get extra candles for this room, Timothée is going to need light.’

‘Yes, My Lord,’ said the boy, dancing on the balls of his feet, seemingly eager to be gone from the room, ‘And don’t let me catch you being rude to Timothée again.’

The boy bowed quickly again before darting off.

‘Poor boy,’ said Timothée with an amused lilt to his voice, ‘I think you terrified him half to death.’

‘Well he was rude to you,’ said Armie, ‘You _do_ have a name. Not just “the Frenchman.”’

‘Technically he’s not wrong about my country of origin,’ said Timothée with a shrug, ‘And I don’t mind. I’ve been called worse.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Armie, and then looked back around the room, ‘Will this be satisfactory to you?’

And for the first time in a long time, Armie actually saw Timothée smile. Not a put on, fake smile, but a real one. One that actually conveyed even a modicum of happiness within him. It lit up his entire face, his green eyes creasing upwards at the edges, and it made something that had previously been hidden in those depths begin to come to the fore. He hoped that he would be able to make him smile like this again. Armie half sighed to himself, he wondered if it would have been easier if he’d just decided to treat Timothée like a prisoner. At least then he wouldn’t have had to spend any time thinking about what to do with him, or whether or not the man was smiling or not.

‘Yes,’ Timothée said, making Armie jump as his thoughts were interrupted, ‘This is something that I could find satisfaction doing.’

**

Armie left the young man in the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Next job was to find and talk to his sister. He expected that she would be in her suite where she spent most of her time, unless she was out hunting or at dinner. He climbed the stairs, back to the floor of the residence rooms, in order to go and meet with his sister. Unlike when he went to see Timothée, he wouldn’t have dared just walk straight into his sister’s room – Lord of the keep or not – so he raised his hand and knocked.

‘Enter,’ came his sister’s imperious voice from inside.

He turned the latch and pushed the heavy door, swinging it open. Annie was sitting beside her window, sewing a new altar cloth for the chapel, she was working on one end, whilst her ladies’ maid was working on the other. Her other maid was reading clumsily in Latin from a Book of Hours. Clearly her sister was trying to get her Latin to improve, but at the moment the lady was clearly struggling with the phrasing.

‘Brother,’ Annie said, getting to her feet. The two ladies did so as well, sweeping deep curtseys in his direction. He couldn’t help but notice the coy smile that one of them shot him before she dipped neatly towards the floor.

‘May I speak with you sister?’ he said.

‘Of course,’ said Annie, ‘Ladies, you may leave.’

‘They can stay, if you wish,’ Armie said, waving an open hand, ‘There’s nothing private to be said.’

‘You might not, but I have something private I wish to discuss with you,’ said Annie.

‘Oh, alright then,’ he said with a surprised smile, walking to take up a spare seat near the hearth that one of the ladies had just vacated. They curtsied again and left the room.

‘What is it?’ he asked his sister once the door had clicked closed.

‘You go first,’ she said, ‘Mine is a somewhat delicate matter.’

‘Well now I’m equally intrigued and worried,’ Armie said with a small smile, ‘But for myself, all I really wanted to know was if you had heard anything from around here that I should be aware of? Having been away for so long, I need to know what’s going on.’

Annie frowned slightly as she thought on his words, ‘At the castle, nothing overly of note. I think our dear brother’s passing is the thing that created the biggest stir since your last time here. Outside the castle, well, plenty of course. Since Edward passed there have been rumours from over the border – the reivers are looking to take advantage of Edward’s absence. I don’t know whether news of your return will dampen those whispers or not.’

‘Well that’s all we need,’ said Armie, closing his eyes, ‘I’ve just returned from one war, the last thing I want is to have to face another fight.’

‘I know brother,’ said Annie gently, ‘But if the rumours are true; then you might not have a choice.’

‘Goddammit!’ he hissed, putting his head in his hands momentarily, ‘Excuse my language sister.’

She waved his curse away with a hand and shook her head, ‘I know. It seems this is the price we pay for holding these turbulent lands. If only our forefathers had known what these border wars would do to this castle and these holdings, maybe they would have asked the Norman Kings for somewhere different.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Armie with a sigh, ‘But then again, this is _our_ land. And I _will_ protect it.’

‘I know you will,’ said Annie, ‘I just wish that I was bearing better tidings to you. Then again, perhaps the rumours and talk are false, and we will have peace.’

Armie couldn’t help but snort slightly at that, ‘When was the last time you remember a year where we did not face some kind of threat from the north?’

‘There were times when those threats came to nothing,’ said Annie with a shrug.

‘Usually only after some kind of show of strength,’ said Armie, ‘Well, so be it, if the rumours are true, then I will act accordingly. We need information first, however. Duncan and James should return within the next few days. As soon as they are rested and well I will send one of them north, to see what they can find out.’

‘You do have other men,’ said Annie.

‘I know,’ said Armie, ‘But I have been on campaign with them. I trust them with my life. And unlike Henry and Matthews, they’re Scotchmen born and bred. They’re more likely to gain the ear of those that might hold useful information.’

‘Well that’s true enough,’ she said.

There was quiet for a moment as he considered what she had told him. The last thing he wanted to do was pick up his sword in arms again, so soon after returning from campaign, but if that’s what was necessary to keep his lands safe, then so be it.

‘Now, what else is it you wanted to tell me?’ asked Armie.

Annie looked down at her hands, pausing as she considered how to discuss this with him, ‘You’ll hear more about it at the gathering and feast this weekend, anyway, but I wanted to give you advance warning of -,’

‘Just tell me Annie,’ Armie said, ‘I will not be angry, whatever this is.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘You know that Eddie was recently betrothed in marriage to Alice, daughter of Lord Percy.’

‘Yes…?’ said Armie, thinking he was beginning to understand where this was going.

‘I believe Lord Percy thinks that the match would still be prudent, to continue strengthening the links between our two families and the defence of the border,’ said Annie, ‘I know that marriage wasn’t on your mind just yet, but it would be prudent to at least allow Lord Percy to think that you’re affable to the match.’

Armie shrugged, ‘I’m not unaffable to it. Why would I be? If the match was good enough for Eddie, then I guess it will be good enough for me as well.’

‘You sound thrilled,’ said Annie with a small smile.

‘As you said, marriage wasn’t on my mind. Not now, or ever particularly,’ said Armie, ‘But it is necessary in order to procure an heir, is it not? So… means to an end.’

‘Don’t let Lord Percy hear you say that,’ said Annie with a giggle, ‘I’m sure he would be most upset to hear you refer to his daughter as a “means to an end.”’

‘I will, of course be more discreet when I meet with the Earl,’ said Armie with an answering grin, ‘Have you ever met her?’

‘She came with the Earl to the signing of the betrothal,’ said Annie, ‘She is not unlovely.’

Armie snorted, ‘Well that’s a polite way of saying that she’s plain.’

‘I did _not_ say that,’ said Annie, hitting him softly on the arm, ‘She was quiet when she came to the castle, demure, raised well. She seemed to warm well to Eddie, the spoke softly for a short time, but other than that I did not see more of her. She left with her father that evening.’

‘Well there are worse recommendations than that I suppose,’ said Armie with a sigh and then got to his feet, ‘Well, that is all I wished to ask of you. I have to go and speak to Jennings about orders of business.’

‘What have you done with the Frenchman?’ Annie asked.

Armie looked down at her sharply at that, ‘Not you as well!’

‘What?’ Annie said perplexed.

‘He _has_ a name!’ said Armie.

‘What is it to you?’ she said, taken aback.

‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘I just find it odd that people insist on calling him “The Frenchman,” when I asked that people treat him as a guest.’

‘Alright,’ she said, still looking surprised, ‘Either way, what have you done with him?’

‘He’s in father’s records room,’ said Armie, ‘I’ve asked that he sort it out, come up with some kind of system so that things are more ordered in there.’

‘Well, that’s quite a job,’ she replied, eyebrows raised.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I thought it would keep him occupied for quite a while. I told him that he needed to be useful whilst he remained here.’

‘Yes, quite, we all have our part to play.’

He nodded, and then bowed shortly to her, ‘Good day, sister. I shall send your ladies back to you. They can’t have gone very far.’

‘Good,’ she said with a smile, ‘I think I might go out for a ride.’

‘Remember to take one of the grooms with you,’ he said as he walked towards the door. He practically heard her look of annoyance directed at his retreating back.


	11. How It Is And How It Should Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’d been right. He didn’t have a second to himself after he entered the hall._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Soooo, err, let's pretend this isn't like ten days late... *whistles*.... I hope you enjoy it, and that you're all staying safe and well. 
> 
> Please, please, please let me know what you think *grovels*. Your comments mean the world to me and keep me motivated to write more. Feel free to tell me what you don't like as well as do. I want to improve as a writer all the time, so knowing what you think is everything. 
> 
> Love  
> V  
> xxx

Armie stood in the middle of his chambers with his arms outstretched as two serving boys helped with his heavy velvet surcoat, pulling the embroidered garment over his arms. One of them reached up to help smooth the creases out of the shoulders and make sure it fell in the correct manner over his expensive shirt. There was lace detailing at the cuffs of the grey silk material of his shirt which seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. It was subtle, but if one looked closely the pattern of entwined doves stood out in the silver thread. The surcoat was black velvet with silver detailing of its own. His mother had made this particular outfit for him when he’d come of age, but he’d never had much cause to wear it since then. He still felt a little uncomfortable in this kind of clothing, preferring his rougher soldiers garb to the silks and satins of the nobility.

Tonight, was one of the rare occasions that required him to dress up in his full regalia, lordly coronet included he thought feeling self-conscious with thin gold band around his forehead. He needed to show himself in his full power and strength to his vassals. Not because anybody who he would meet tonight was a particular threat to him, but to deter any of them from even thinking about it in the future. It was unlikely that they would do so, they knew he was a favourite of the king – to be in direct contradiction to the King’s favourites was a very dangerous place to be.

He lifted one leg as a boy brought forward his dancing slippers, allowing him to slide his foot into the soft leather material before tying it with the soft leather thongs threaded through the loops to make sure it didn’t slip off. He did the same with his other foot, allowing the boy to tie that one as well. Next came his intricate silver belt, leather cut into beautiful patterns of swans and griffins. It had belonged to his father in the past, and he had admired it then. Now, like everything else that had once been his father’s; it was his. He held out his hands as the serving boys slid various rings onto his fingers, including the family signet ring.

He glanced in the polished glass of the mirror one of the serving boys brought forward. Another highly precious object owned by his father before him; it was carried with great reverence, and wrapped in soft furs when not in use. Armie still found it odd to look at his own reflection in anything other than the glassy surface of a still pond, but thankfully he didn’t have to do it much. He looked at the man who looked back; he looked strong and powerful, but he hoped that he didn’t look arrogant. He would hate for that to be the case. He felt overdressed, but knew that when he went downstairs he would fit right in. Perhaps he would even have less adornment than others who were there tonight. He knew that Baron Munroe of Penrith had a penchant for silver and gold jewellery, often mixed together. Sometimes, when he was younger, he’d wondered how the man had managed to hold his head up with the sheer weight of necklaces and pendants that he had draped around his neck.

‘Thank you,’ he said to the boys, as they finished dressing him and backed away respectfully. Despite their obsequious nature, he knew they were excited about the upcoming feast. They’d get more than their fair share of food tonight, and would probably be able to take part in the dancing and revelry when the lords and ladies had had their fill or were so far in their cups they wouldn’t notice. It wasn’t yet fully dark and the guests had been arriving for hours, creating a spectacle for the towns people as richly dressed lords and ladies rode up on fine horses, or in their carriages and litters. Of course, it was nothing as over the top as some of the court feasts he had attended, but the townsfolk in this town, it was far more excitement than they usually got.

He had left Jennings and Dunstan in charge of greeting the the guests and ensuring their comfort until he was ready to enter the hall. Tonight’s entertainment was to be a grand dinner, followed by music and dancing, along with plenty of wine and beer at all times. Most of the guests would then be staying at the castle, or had been found lodgings in the best rooms the town could offer (for those where there was no further room in the keep).

There was a knock at the door, which made him turn.

‘Enter,’ he said. The heavy door swung inwards.

‘My Lord,’ it was Timothée’s assigned serving boy, his arms holding a bedroll and a small bolster.

‘Come in,’ he said, gesturing to the space near the hearth. This was one of the downsides of having so many guests to stay in the keep, those who already lived within its walls had to make room for the newcomers as there were only a handful of guest rooms and spaces. As such, Timothée was to be sleeping on the floor of his room for the next few nights; his sister would be sharing with some of the unmarried ladies who were attending the feast tonight. Even the lady of the castle’s rooms were being used for Lord Percy and his wife – they had stood empty ever since his mother died, and there had been no lady of the castle since then. His sister couldn’t use them, being unmarried, so they simply remained vacant. Armie had ordered fresh linens and rushes be found before the guests slept in there, and a fire had been burning for some days to chase away at least some of the damp. What had been his room as a young man, then assigned to Timothée, had been turned over to Bishop Munroe. His younger brother William’s room had been given to another visiting lord of the church. Dunstan and Jennings had also been turfed out of their rooms on the floor below and would be sleeping in the hall with the rest of the servants after the festivities had ended. It wasn’t going to be the most comfortable way to spend the next few days, but there was no alternative.

‘Put it close to the hearth – not that close! – we don’t want it to catch fire,’ said Armie as the serving boy arranged the bedroll.

Timothée was stood close to the door, looking a little like a spare part as serving boys buzzed around the room. Armie noticed that he was dressed in one of William’s more formal outfits; a dark blue tunic with an undershirt with fox fur around the cuffs. He kept bringing the cuffs to his face, absentmindedly touching his skin, as if to test the softness of the material. As his own black surcoat had a mink fur trim, Armie could appreciate the desire to brush one’s fingers through the fabric almost constantly. It was something his mother had constantly told him off for when he was a child, so he’d had it trained out of him.

‘That looks good,’ Armie said to him, ‘It fits you alright?’

‘It was very kind of you to find something for me,’ said Timothée, self-consciously straightening the sleeves of his undershirt, ‘I haven’t worn something like this since I was at home.’

Armie shrugged, not wanting to be drawn into this particular avenue of conversation. He imagined that at some point he would have to talk to Timothée about home, and whether he might ever see it again.

‘To be honest, I didn’t expect to be invited at all.’

‘To the feast?’

‘Where else?’ said Timothée with a small smile playing on his lips.

Armie sighed and then turned to look towards the hearth, ‘Most of my vassals and lords know of your presence in my castle, you not being there would raise even more questions.’

‘Well there’s that I suppose,’ said Timothée, ‘I guess it would be easier for you if I were to show my face.’

Armie shrugged, ‘I also think you’d be good company.’

‘You’ll be entertaining lords and ladies,’ said Timothée, ‘I don’t think you’ll have much time for me. Isn’t the whole point of this evening’s event?’

‘Yes, I imagine everyone will be very interested to have a piece of me,’ said Armie, his face falling slightly as he thought about it, ‘Well, I suppose hiding up here won’t make it any better. I’ll go and see if my sister is ready to escort down to the hall.’

**

He’d been right. He didn’t have a second to himself after he entered the hall. Everybody wanted a piece of him; to talk to him, to hear about the king’s campaign in France, to offer their sympathies for the death of his brother, among many many other things. He barely had a moment to breathe between conversations, and only managed a bite or two to eat of his own feast. The others seemed to have plenty to eat, however, and the wine and beer were following freely, with laughter breaking out in peels around the hall constantly. In one of the rare moments where he had a chance to glance about, he was glad to see people enjoying themselves. Yes, this evening had been expensive in the short term, but it was worth it to get his vassals on his side. Not that they weren’t on his side to begin with, but it was a good idea just to make sure.

He was about to reach for a leg of lamb when the Bishop Burton approached the top table.

‘Ah my Lord Bishop,’ said Armie smiling, removing his hand from near the plate to greet the bishop. He watched slightly forlornly out of the corner of his eye as a serving boy carried the plate away to another table at somebody’s behest.

‘My Lord,’ said the bishop, taking his proffered hand between both of his.

‘Come sit,’ said Armie, gesturing to the seat next to him. The seat to the left of him had been strategically left empty for anyone who wanted to talk during the feast, and might approach the table to do so. His sister was sitting on his right, deep in conversation with the son of a local well-to-do horse merchants about whether Steppe ponies or Spanish horses made for better hunting steeds.

It took the bishop a few moments to make his way around the table, but he managed alright and sat down heavily. He looked troubled.

‘Is something worrying you Burton?’ he asked, taking a sip of his wine.

‘A little, I have to admit, my Lord,’ said the bishop gravely, ‘We have heard rumours that the Scots are preparing to attack the border regions once again.’

Armie grimaced, ‘Yes, I have heard these rumours as well. If there is any more than rumour to be had about it, rest assured that we will be ready for them.’

‘That is not all my lord,’ said Burton.

‘Aye?’ said Armie, ‘And please, call me Armie whilst we talk, it is a lot easier than “my lord” each time.’

The bishop nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment that was doing away with the formalities of title and rank.

‘Thank you, er, Armie,’ said Burton, ‘Anyway, we have heard tell that the Scots may be meaning to attack Lanercost.’

‘The Priory?’ said Armie, his mouth dropping open slightly, ‘Surely not. They would raid a house of God for a faith that they share?’

His mind immediately flashed back to some of the atrocities he had seen committed in monasteries and nunneries in northern France by soldiers marching with King Edward’s army. He banished the thought; that was hundreds of leagues away from here, he needed to focus.

‘So we have heard,’ said Burton, ‘The Abbot wrote to me in great distress last week, having heard the rumours for himself, begging for protection. The monks have no way to defend themselves from attack.’

‘Quite,’ said Armie, ‘Well, they shall have it. I will send a small detachment of the castle guard to Lanercost tomorrow to serve as protection for the priory until we can find the whys and wherefores of these rumours and how much truth there may be to them.’

‘Thank you,’ said Burton smiling, ‘The Abbot will be deeply gratified for your protection.’

‘We must protect our holy sites,’ said Armie firmly.

‘Quite…, well, I won’t take up any more of your time, thank you for laying on such a magnificent feast,’ said Burton. He got up after this exchange and with a small nod of his head, left the seat and disappeared back to where he had been seated before he approached the top table. Armie looked around the room, searching out two specific people. He spotted James on one of the lower tables, stuffing some kind of apple pie into his mouth as fast as he could manage, and Duncan trying to chat up one of the serving girls. By the expression on her face, he wasn’t being particularly successful in his efforts. He grabbed the nearest kitchen boy by the elbow as he came hurrying past, and with a quick whisper in his ear, sent him to fetch the two men. The pair had arrived back at the keep only yesterday, having had to wait a few days to find passage in northern France. Their journey had been uninterrupted by bandits, however, so they returned unhindered and in good spirits.

‘My Lord?’ Duncan appeared at his shoulder. Armie motioned to the empty seat next to him, so he sat down. When James appeared he would just have to stand or crouch.

‘I have a job for you,’ said Armie.

‘Armie?’ James appeared. Clearly he’d had more to drink than Duncan as he did away with the formalities immediately. Armie didn’t mind too much as they were the closest thing to what he might have considered friends other than the men he had once squired with. He didn’t see those knights much at all anymore, some had made it into the king’s army, others had found work elsewhere, one had even joined a mercenary company, much to his father’s shame. The occasional letter made it to the keep, but beyond that, there was little other contact.

‘I know you only returned yesterday, and I had planned to give you more of a respite before making you undertake work again -,’

‘- It’s alright Armie, we’re used to it,’ said James with a sparkle of laughter in his eyes. Normally he wouldn’t have dared have so much cheek, but the wine had made him bold. Duncan elbowed him the ribs.

‘I need you return home, across the border,’ said Armie to James, ‘And find out whether these rumours of a planned invasion and a military muster are true.’

‘Hmmm yes, I’d heard talk about that in the guard room,’ said James, instantly seeming soberer, ‘It’s all a lot of the men can talk about.’

‘Unsurprisingly,’ said Duncan, ‘And did you have work for me as well?’

‘Yes, I need you to travel with the Bishop of Burton when he leaves the castle, either tomorrow or the day after, and to relay any messages that might be heard in that part of the county back to me. I need to have as many people on the ground as I can spare, to find out if the Scots really are planning an invasion,’ he said.

‘I imagine it’ll just be another one of their pathetic raiding parties if it’s anything,’ said James with a shrug.

‘Possibly,’ said Armie, ‘And I will breathe a sigh of relief if that proves true. I’m not taking any chances, however, and I will expect regular reports from the pair of you, twice weekly at the least, more if you can manage it.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Duncan, ‘We need to know the reality of what we’re facing. If anything.’

‘Mmm,’ Armie agreed, ‘Now go and enjoy what’s left of the feast, there’s nothing further any of us can do about it tonight. I’ll speak to you both on the morrow before you leave.’

‘Yes my Lord,’ said James, seemingly remembering his status for a moment. They both gave small bows and disappeared back into the crowds once again.

Armie was just taking another sip of his wine when a page appeared at his elbow, ‘My Lord?’

‘Yes Thomas, what is it?’ he said.

‘My Lord Percy wants to speak with you,’ said the page nervously.

Armie nodded, ‘Invite him to the table Thomas.’

The page boy scarpered off, and Armie took another deep gulp of his wine. Percy would almost certainly want to talk about the potential betrothal of his daughter, and he couldn’t with any sense of honesty say that he was much looking forward to that conversation.

**

The door to his chambers slammed back into the stone wall behind it as he almost fell in through the entrance, miscalculating how much force it would take to actually open it. It normally took a lot of wine to get him drunk, but clearly he had made a fairly decent effort this evening. That could also be something to do with the small amount of food he’d eaten. By the time that everyone had spoken to him who’d wanted to speak, and he’d managed to actually have a few seconds to himself, the minimal amount of food that was left had been cleared away, the tables pushed back and space made for the musicians and the dancing. He’d danced with his sister and her ladies maids, as well as the Lady Alice, who he supposed he was now betrothed to after his long conversation with Lord Percy.

He chuckled to himself at the thought of it – he was getting married. How strange.

‘Something funny?’

He jumped when a voice sounded out of the near darkness near the hearth, before he saw the vague silhouette of Timothée, highlighted by the remaining glow of the fire, and by the few candles that were dotted around the room.

‘Sorry,’ said Timothée, ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘You didn’t… much,’ said Armie, taking a few steps into the room and closing the door behind him with a bit of a crash, despite his intention to close it quietly.

‘ _Merde_ ,’ he muttered, which caused Timothée to giggle from near the fire. He saw the man’s hand move towards the fire poker, which he then shoved into the flames, kindling it back into life, before he placed another log on it, a little more light emanating into the room. He saw he was just in his undershirt and breeches, having discarded his brother’s surcoat and folded it into a neat pile by his bedroll.

‘Do you have more candles in here?’ Timothée asked.

‘Um, I think so,’ said Armie, ‘In the box by the bed. Why?’

‘I brought up some food for you to eat whenever you got here,’ said Timothée, getting up and rummaging in the box for some candles, ‘You might like to be able to see what you’re eating.’

He made a noise of triumph when he found them and, putting them in a large candlestick with many holders, lit them using the smaller candle beside the bed. Armie meanwhile had sunk down onto the chair beside the hearth, slightly nonplussed and more than a little drunk. He wasn’t sure if it was him, or if the carpenter had built this chair on a slight tilt.

‘You brought me food, why?’ he asked as Timothée came back over towards the fireplace with the candelabra in his hand.

‘Because I noticed you didn’t get a lot during the feast,’ said Timothée with a shrug, sinking down cross-legged onto his bedroll and handing up a plate of food to Armie. Armie’s stomach gave a loud grateful growl as he took in what was in front of him. The younger man had managed to take some slices of beef, bread with dripping, some of the whitebait (now cold unfortunately), and two apples.

‘Thank you,’ he said, wholly meaning what he said, taking the plate. He hadn’t realised just how hungry he was until the plate was in front of him, and he quickly ate the fish, before the beef and the bread.

‘Good?’ said Timothée from where he was sitting, a small smile in his face as he watched him wolf it down.

‘Yes, it was very kind of you to think of me,’ said Armie, taking a large bite out of one of the apples.

Timothée shrugged, ‘It’s not much fun being hungry, and I didn’t really want to dance. Not that I think anyone would have danced with me… so I came back up here.’

Armie considered him carefully, feeling significantly less drunk now that he had some food inside of him.

‘No-one was rude to you, were they?’ he asked, ‘Or threatened you?’

Timothée shook his head, ‘No, nothing like that. Most people didn’t really pay me much attention at all. Your sister took pity on me a few times, and the maid of hers who is learning to speak French, but they both had more interesting people to talk to than me.’

‘You should have come to talk to me,’ said Armie, finishing off the first apple.

‘You were busy,’ said Timothée with a shrug, ‘Some of the more important people in the room were looking at me like I had two heads, which was quite funny, I have to say. Especially Baron Norton, he looked as if he’d never seen a Frenchman before.’

Armie chuckled, ‘Possibly he hadn’t. He’s not known for being the sharpest tool in the shed.’

Timothée giggled, ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

Armie sat back and rubbed his hand over his eyes, ‘It’ll probably help if you learn some English.’

‘I thought that,’ said Timothée, ‘Although quite a lot of people seem to speak at least rudimentary French. Not fluent like yourself or your sister, but enough to get by.’

Armie shrugged, ‘Still, it would probably make your life easier, especially if you go out into the city at all.’

Timothée’s eyebrows rose, ‘You’d let me do that?’

‘I think I can trust you enough to go out into the city if I need you to,’ said Armie. ‘To buy something or other perhaps. You’ll need to be able to speak English then.’

Timothée nodded, his eyes shining slightly at the idea of not being wholly confined to the castle precinct. Armie looked around for somewhere to put the plate down he was holding, but was momentarily at a loss. Timothée held up his hand to take it. Armie smiled and passed it in his direction, his fingers just touching the other man’s as he did so. Timothée pulled his hand back as if burned, or as if he might be severely scolded for daring to touch the hand of the man he called his captor without invitation.

‘Thank you,’ said Armie again as Timothée put it down, wanting to assure the other man that he was in no trouble.

There was a pause before he spoke again, ‘You don’t need to be scared of me you know.’

‘I’m not,’ Timothée insisted, and then shrugged again, ‘But you are still my jailor.’

Armie flinched at his choice of word.

‘I won’t lash out or anything, unless you should give me cause to do so, like you did back in France,’ said Armie, choosing not to address the last part of Timmy’s sentence in so many words. Timothée shrugged again, and Armie let out a massive yawn in response, causing the other man to giggle and for any tension to seep away.

‘Guess that tells me I should go to sleep,’ said Armie, ‘I need to be of decently sound mind tomorrow, as I have a council with the other northern lords about what to do about the Scots threat. You’ll need to be there.’

‘I will?’ asked Timothée surprised as Armie got to his feet.

‘Yes, as well as sorting my ancestors letter room, I’ve decided to make you my scribe – your hand is clear and good, much better than Jennings’ it has to be said – so I’d like you there to take a record of anything important that’s said.’

Timothée’s eyebrows rose again, but then he nodded, ‘Alright.’

Armie smiled in his direction, unsure if he could see it due to the low light, before stripping off his outer layers and falling into bed in his shirt and breeches. He knew Dunstan wouldn’t be best pleased, because the linen would be hell to get the creases out of if he’d slept in it all night, but right now, with the softness of his bolster under his head, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

‘You know something Timothée,’ he mumbled, just as he was drifting off to sleep, ‘In another life – one where we didn’t meet on the field of battle – I feel like we might have been friends.’

He thought he heard the other man give some sort of noise in response, before he possibly, possibly said, ‘Yes, I think that too.’

Then again, he might have fallen asleep by then, and it was his wine addled brain making things up as he fell into the deepness of his dreams.


	12. Comforting Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There was a moment of silence as their words lay heavy on the air, a feeling of understanding passing between them in the confidences that they had shared with each other._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments on the last chapter, it really inspires me to keep writing and gives me so much motivation! So thank you for that.... :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter - I know there are some more 21st century ideas in this chapter in terms of relationships... maybe. But just go with me on this one :P 
> 
> Anyway, hope you're all staying safe and well! 
> 
> V  
> xxx

Armie swung himself up into Helios’ newly buffed and repaired saddle, getting seated comfortably a moment or two later. The item had had some tender care applied to it since he had returned from France, and was much more comfortable for it. Helios was the same; his coat looked shinier, and his hooves had been cleaned and reshod in the days since he had returned. He’d double checked everything was as it should be before mounting up; the last thing he wanted was for his favourite horse to go lame because he was being negligent. He looked around him to see the accompanying party also mounting their horses and settling themselves for their trip.

They were going hunting. For those who were staying for more than a day at the castle, it was important that they were kept entertained, and not allowed to think that he was a poor host. Some of them were looking a little worse for wear after last night’s revelries he noticed. Thankfully, like he, they had most of the morning for the effects of too much wine to abate, as he had held council this morning, to discuss the problem of the purported Scottish invasion. Now, the serious business of the morning had given way to lighter entertainment, and he was immensely glad of the distraction. They’d decided on a plan of action this morning, and all the lords around the table had approved of his plan to send men first to Lanercost, and then also to find out more information about exactly what they might be facing. He didn’t want to think on that anymore right now. James and Duncan had left on their prospective missions as well; James going back over the the border, and Duncan travelling with Bishop Burton after council had concluded. He’d spoken to them both before they’d left, to ensure that they knew exactly what their mission entailed.

His falconer brought forward his bird, which he took carefully, resting her on his protected right forearm. Going hunting with a falcon meant having to ride one handed, but that was hardly something he wasn’t used to. He’d ridden into battle, sword in one hand, shield in the other, steering Helios with nothing but his thighs. Therefore, holding Artemis (for that was what he had named his falcon) with one hand, and Helios’ reins with the other was no particular hardship. He checked the group once more to make sure was ready. 

‘Move out!’ he called, when he saw that everyone was mounted up. They were a party of about fifteen; Matthews and Henry were amongst them, as was Timothée, on the horse that had been procured for him in Southampton. He didn’t have a bird, but he’d said that he’d like to join them when Armie had invited him to do so. Henry was riding alongside him as they trotted under the castle portcullis and into the main town, talking to him in his common French. Henry wasn’t a perfect French speaker by any means, but his years in Armie’s service and then in the king’s army had given him enough to be able to get by in informal conversation. Timothée was very patient when it came to his mistakes and slip ups.

Armie had deigned not to tie the bridle of Timothée’s horse to any of that of his men, as he wanted the other man to know that he trusted him enough not to bolt off into the countryside. They’d been through that charade, and he thought that Timothée was probably smarter than to try it. He was safer in the castle than he was anywhere outside of it, and he was intelligent enough to know it. He also thought it would look mighty odd to the rest of the party that he was bringing the prisoner along, and yet he was going to tie him to his horse. That wasn’t really the image he wanted people to remember when they recalled his French prisoner, or himself for that matter.

As they rode into the countryside surrounding the town, Armie couldn’t help but take a deep breath of the freshness of the air; it was so good to be out of the confines of the castle after more than a week of being holed up there dealing with all sorts of business. It seemed Helios was glad of the exercise as well, as he was dancing friskily as they moved, daintily stepping sideways a little, so that Armie had to give him the odd nudge with his knee to remind him who was in charge. He’d have been exercised in the yard by the stable hands of course, and had a run about out in the paddock when he was there, but it wasn’t quite the same as actually being taken out on a proper jaunt. He knew when it was Armie riding him, and seemed to take joy in the fact that he was going to be treated to proper expedition. If he was lucky he might even get a gallop later.

They headed into the castle parkland, deer at least half a mile ahead scattering as they heard their approach. Not the sort of prey he was interested in today, so they had nothing to worry about. They drew up after about another mile and a half in order to release the birds. The Lady Alice drew up beside him. She had decided that she wanted to come today, and in a way he felt gratified that she was at least prepared to make an effort in order to forge some kind of connection between them. He didn’t even know where to start when it came to that sort of thing. She gave him a small smile before loosing her kestrel from her arm. A kestrel was the befitting bird of a lady – that or a sparrowhawk. A falcon like his would be too heavy for her to carry for any particular length of time. He smiled back, a little shyly, and let Artemis fly as well, watching as she rose swiftly into the sky, and found her footing on the uppermost branches of an oak tree at the edge of the field they were currently waiting in, her eyes darting this way and that looking for signs of movement on the ground below. He sometimes wondered what the world must look like from such a height, and how small and insignificant everything must seem. Artemis would never think of such things, but he wondered if he could climb so high whether he’d feel as if he’d left all of his cares behind on the ground below him.

He watched carefully as Artemis bunched up her muscles after a few moments of watching, ready to take flight, and then she was swooping, speeding towards the ground so fast that she blurred. He watched anxiously, almost sure that she was going to hit the earth, but then at the last second, she pulled up, a struggling rabbit caught between her talons. He whistled for her immediately, before she could take it somewhere and have it for lunch, and she turned and wheeled on the air, hurtling back towards him. The falconer caught her first, taking the rabbit from her grasp and rewarding her with a piece of meat. Armie also had a piece so that when she landed back on his outstretched right arm, she was rewarded once again. He reached up with his free left hand and stroked her head. He could have sworn her impressive yellow eyes closed momentarily in satisfaction, before she once again fixed him with a beady look as he clipped her back to his glove.

‘Impressive,’ came Timothée’s voice as he drew up his horse beside him, his eyes watching a few of the other birds as they also hunted.

‘Thank you,’ said Armie with a grin, watching as he reached out and petted Artemis’ head, ‘I’ve trained her since I was younger, she’s very good to me.’

‘She knows where she gets looked after that’s why,’ said Timothée with a grin as Artemis took the small chunk of mouse meat he offered out, and then nipped at him with her beak.

‘Well that’s certainly true,’ said Armie, ‘She’s definitely spoilt.’

They were interrupted by the tiniest of coughs from his other side, which made him look over at Lady Alice, who tucked a piece of her auburn hair that had come loose from underneath riding hat, back into place.

‘Will you introduce me?’ Alice asked him pointedly.

‘Yes, sorry,’ said Armie, a little flustered at the forgetting of his manners, ‘My Lady, this is Monsieur Timothée Chalamet-Aubert, my unwilling companion since the fields of France. Timothée, this is my betrothed; the Lady Alice Percy.’

‘It is very nice to meet you,’ said Timothée, bowing as deeply as he could whilst still on horseback, ‘And apologies for my rudeness in not seeking to introduce myself right away.’

‘That’s quite alright Timothée,’ said Alice, ‘It is good to finally make your acquaintance.’

Armie couldn’t help but notice she didn’t say anything about such an event being a nice thing. Maybe she thought meeting French prisoners wasn’t meant to be a pleasurable or nice thing for ladies of the English nobility, and she was doing her best to maintain the decorum becoming of her rank. She whistled through her teeth a moment later – teeth, which Armie noticed were thankfully still all there and clean, which boded well for the state of her health – in order to make her kestrel return to her, a good-sized wood pigeon clasped in its sharp talons.

**

Dinner that night was a much more subdued affair than the night before. The cooks in the kitchens below had still laid on wonderful food, but there was less variety, and less servants darting about the hall to serve. The rabbits and pigeon caught on that day’s hunt featured heavily, in the way of pies and stews. Armie thought there was something good about immediately eating the food caught on a hunt. Unlike many people, he actually liked to think that the animals caught weren’t simply going to waste, and that they were being used. To do otherwise would not do justice to the bounty of the hunt. Of course, he couldn’t say this to many people as such thoughts came dangerously close to some of the pagan beliefs that had been rife in this country before the true faith had taken hold. The idea that the earth gave freely and that its animals had a purpose, it was nonsense of course. Yet still, he felt good about putting what had been caught to use.

He had been keeping up steady conversation with the Lady Alice whilst he ate, carefully watched over by her father. Not that this was especially needed, it wasn’t as if he was going to suggest something improper in the great hall, but nevertheless he hovered. She was his only daughter, so he suspected that the man felt some modicum of protectiveness over her, especially as one of her engagements had already fallen through due to bad luck. She was an alright dining companion, and seemed interested in hearing about his time in the King’s army. As for herself she had little to talk about, having received little more than the most rudimentary education needed in order to be someone’s duchess, countess, or baroness, depending on how canny her father was in securing her betrothal. She spoke French, knew a little about household accounts and the such like, she could ride, hunt, dance, play a lyre, and knew how to sing passably. But that was about as far as her knowledge went; she knew nothing of politics, or theology, nor history either. Armie could tell from their conversation that he was mostly going to have stay with domestic topics when talking with her, as she wasn’t all that good at venturing into other realms of conversation. Abstract notions, such as philosophy and art seemed to utterly baffle her. No matter, he didn’t need his wife to be a debate partner. He needed her to help run his estate and to give him a son, two things he hoped the Lady Alice would be competent at.

After dinner, he made his excuses and retired to his rooms. He had some letters to read and respond to, and Jennings had requested an audience about replacing their current tailor. Normally he would just tell the man to make these kinds of decisions for himself, but having just come back after a long absence, he figured he should at least look interested in such things, lest he be considered neglectful. That was something that the Lady Alice would be immensely useful for; she would take over the running of the household when they were married, and then the more mundane trivia, such as who supplied the cloth and who provided which vegetables, could be handed over to her.

Reading and replying to the letters made for an interesting enough diversion for a few hours. One was from his brother William, with a long update about how his training as a squire was coming along, as well as an attached report from his lord. It was good to see that the boy seemed to be doing well, although apparently, he was struggling somewhat in the tiltyard as he lacked upper body strength. That would come with time; the lad was only just fourteen. A few tough years of martial training, and he would have all the strength he needed to excel in the joust.

He also wrote a letter to the King, outlining his intention to be married soon. Normally his marriage would have to come with the King’s express permission. As a peer of the realm, his marriage was a matter of national importance, and therefore to not ask the King’s permission would be a grave insult. However, the King had already granted permission for Alice and his brother to be married, therefore de facto agreeing for an alliance between the two titles. Armie didn’t think there would be a problem with him stepping into his brother’s shoes in terms of his betrothal. Still, he thought it prudent to inform his liege and friend as to what his intentions were, even if by the time a reply arrived, he would probably already be married. Lord Percy was pressing for a quick wedding; these things didn’t take all that long to organise, and there was no real reason to delay.

Finishing up his writing, Armie made sure all the letters were sealed before heading for the door of his chambers. He opened the heavy door and nearly jumped out of his skin to see Timothée stood just on the other side, leaning against the stone wall of the corridor, looking at his nails.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, slightly suspicious but more just genuinely confused.

‘Waiting for you to finish,’ said Timothée with a shrug, illuminated in the slight light emanating from the candle sconces in the corridor, ‘I knew you were busy and I didn’t want to disturb you.’

Armie relaxed, ‘You wouldn’t have been, I was only writing some letters. Go on in, I’ll be back in a moment.’

Timothée nodded, and then slinked past him into the room. Armie shook his head, a little nonplussed, before going in search of serving boy to make sure that the letters were sent out post-haste with the next messenger. He probably could have just yelled and one would have come running, but he’d been sat at his desk for long enough that having an excuse to stretch his legs and go in search of one in the castle was actually a small blessing.

He returned to the room a while later to see Timothée stripped down to his breeches and shirt, sitting in front of the fire. He took off his own surcoat and laid it on a chair near his wardrobe.

‘You should be able to have your room back tomorrow,’ said Armie, pouring a goblet of wine for himself and one for Timothée, which he handed to him as he approached the hearth himself.

‘Oh?’

‘Most of the guests are leaving tomorrow,’ said Armie, ‘Except for those who made exceptionally long journeys to be here. They’re staying an extra night, but there’s not that many of them.’

Timothée nodded, ‘It hasn’t been so bad. This bedroll isn’t that uncomfortable. Far better than the one I had whilst in the army… and you don’t snore nearly as much as the other men in my troop did.’

Armie chuckled, ‘I’m glad to hear it. Although I imagined I snored plenty last night; I’d had enough wine.’

‘Well, I’d had plenty too,’ said Timothée with a grin, ‘I probably didn’t notice all that much; I was pretty tired.’

There was a brief pause as they both took a sip of their wine.

‘The Lady Alice seems… nice,’ Timothée ventured a moment later into the quiet.

Armie gave a one-shouldered shrug which he supposed might seem a bit cold, but then he added, ‘Yes, she seems like a good lady.’

‘You don’t sound excited,’ said Timothée shortly.

Armie was slightly taken aback by his boldness, but then again, he had invited Timothée’s friendship – or at least his company - since they’d arrived at the castle. He wasn’t going to rebuff him now for his somewhat impertinent comment.

‘Marriage wasn’t something I ever felt overly excited about,’ he said, ‘But I guess it’s something I have no choice in now. I can’t remain unmarried and leave the estate without an heir.’

‘There’s always your younger brother, isn’t there?’ said Timothée, ‘Would he not do the job?’

Armie chuckled, ‘I think William would be even less prepared to do this than I am.’

‘And I suppose he is a bit young,’ said Timothée with a giggle, ‘I don’t think Alice would be pleased to have to wait _another_ five years to get her wedding to a Berkeley lord.’

‘Yes, I think not,’ said Armie, ‘… I wrote to the King today to tell him about the wedding. We’re getting married in three weeks.’

‘Not long,’ said Timothée.

‘It doesn’t take all that long to plan a wedding when you’ve got enough people thinking about it,’ said Armie, shrugging again, ‘And it won’t be an overly complicated affair. Most of the lords who would attend are still… er -,’

‘Waging war on my country?’ Timothée supplied as he paused, trying to diplomatically think of what to say.

‘Well… err… yes,’ said Armie, somewhat lamely before finding his stride again, ‘Normally the King would attend a wedding such as mine, which would make it a much grander affair, and also cost a lot more of course. I think Alice is a bit disappointed that that won’t be the case.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Timothée, ‘You will have to have a grand feast if he returns.’

Armie didn’t miss the use of his word ‘if’ and not ‘when.’ He decided to let it go, however, knowing that it was probably too much to ask Timothée to actually be respectful of his King. He certainly didn’t respect the Capetian King and his capricious nonsense, so he understood Timothée’s feelings on that front at least.

‘I imagine I will,’ said Armie, stretching out his legs, ‘But that could be years from now. I’ll worry about it then. For now, I have more pressing issues to worry about – the Scots for one.’

‘Yes, that does seem like it might be an issue; although your ideas in council this morning seemed sound,’ said Timothée, and then he shrugged, ‘Well, you can only deal with a problem when it becomes one. Until then you can only be ready for what’s in front of you.’

‘Very wise words Timothée,’ said Armie looking over at him. The other man looked up, holding his gaze steadily.

‘It was something my father taught me,’ said Timothée, his voice sounding a little uncertain, ‘And it really helped me when my mother and siblings were sick. I couldn’t do anything other than deal with what was in front of me. I could pray for things to be better, for them to live, but in the end I was powerless – it was in God’s hands.’

Armie nodded and then said slowly, ‘I’m very sorry that that happened to you.’

Timothée looked down at his hands, still holding his wine cup, ‘As I said. There are some things we can control, and others we cannot. I think the more people who holding us up on this weird pyramid which we find ourselves, the less we can control. We think we control everything – but in reality, it’s all laid out before us… or at least it was.’

He shifted a moment later and then sighed, ‘Sorry, sometimes wine makes me melancholy.’

‘Don’t apologise,’ said Armie, ‘It must have been a terribly difficult thing to go through. To lose ones’ parents is hard enough, to lose your mother and your siblings so quickly must have been awful.’

‘Well, I still have my sister, and I least I know she is safe, and is well loved by the family she will be joining,’ Timothée said, ‘Or has joined. She might be married by now.’

‘That’s a good thing to know,’ said Armie quietly, looking down into his own cup, now nearly empty, ‘I hope I can be what Alice expects me to be as well.’

‘Do you know what she expects?’ asked Timothée.

‘Not really,’ said Armie, ‘But then again I don’t really know her. I suppose I will have to get to know her through the course of our marriage.’

Timothée looked across at him, ‘It is one of the odd things about people in our walk of life, isn’t it? That we go to our weddings almost as complete strangers, certainly not thinking to look for love in our state of matrimony.’

‘I don’t think many people “look” for love in their marriages,’ said Armie offhand, ‘Most people look to better themselves when it comes to their marriages. In that sense, we are no different from the farmers and the city smiths.’

Timothée sighed, ‘I wonder what it would be like to marry for love?’

Armie snorted, ‘Well I guess I will never know. The Lady Alice is pleasing enough, but I do not think I could _love_ her. Care for her, yes… but love… that is something else entirely.’

A log cracked in the hearth, sending a shower of sparks upwards. Timothée took a deep breath, as he were about to speak, before clearly deciding not to.

‘What is it?’ Armie asked after the second time he had done this.

‘Have you…,’ said the younger man, and then paused again, licking his lips, ‘Have you ever been in love?’

Armie snorted a little under his breath before he raised an eyebrow, ‘I don’t suppose I ever have. I’ve probably fancied myself in love with one person or another over the years, but they were just passing fancies. Not real love.’

‘A bit of fun here and there?’ said Timothée, his thick eyebrows wagging up and down in a lewd gesture. Armie couldn’t help but let out a burst of laughter at the insinuation.

‘Yes,’ he said, his palms open in a gesture of confession, ‘I’m sure there was a bit of fun to be had here and there. Although I was always very discreet.’

‘No angry fathers with pitchforks after you then?’ asked Timothée, a grin still fixed on his features, ‘No Berkeley babes running about?’

‘That would be rather difficult,’ said Armie before he could stop himself and think about what he actually said, but the quizzical look Timothée shot him made him add, ‘But not that I’m aware of.’

Timothée grinned up at him, and Armie felt his cheeks heat up under his gaze, so he groped around to move the attention away from himself, ‘What about you, have you ever been in love?’

Timothée shrugged one shoulder, much like he had done earlier in the evening, ‘There was someone once, someone who cared for very deeply. I suppose that was the closest I have ever been to being in love.’

‘What happened?’ asked Armie, ‘If you don’t mind me asking?’

Timothée was looking into the flames, his eyes following the sparks as they flew across the stone.

‘They died,’ he said simply, a moment or two later, ‘Not the plague that took my mother and siblings, you understand… It was a hunting accident. One day they went out with my father’s troop when we hosting guests, and they came back wrapped in a large cloth, the victim of a boar. There was nothing anyone could do.’

‘I am so sorry to hear that,’ said Armie, laying a hand on Timothée’s shoulder, his thumb rubbing slowly back and forth across the muscle below the shirt, ‘You have borne a lot of grief in a short space of time.’

Timothée nodded and then shrugged, ‘Which is why I have become so familiar with the idea of what I can, and what I cannot control. To attempt to control that which I cannot would just lead to further grief, so I try not to let myself dwell on it.’

‘I hope you find some comfort in that,’ he said a little lamely, unsure of what else to say in the face of this wisdom, and the heartbreak that had occurred in order to find it.

There was a moment of silence as their words lay heavy on the air, a feeling of understanding passing between them in the confidences that they had shared with each other. It was just the tiniest things, but he realised it was more than he had _really_ said to anyone in months. He wondered what it was about this younger man that allowed him to say these things, and to find comfort or wisdom in the words that he said in return.

His hand still lay heavy on Timothée’s shoulder, when the other man brought his own up, and just touched his fingers to the back of his knuckles. It was just the hairsbreadth of a touch; the acknowledgement of comfort given, and comfort found.

‘I do find that comforting,’ said Timothée softly, his voice barely a breath over the crackling of the fire, his fingertips barely touching his skin, ‘Thank you.’


	13. To Sink So Low

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was just over two weeks later when the letter came to the keep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one week?! Don't get used to it... I have just been in a bit of a writing frenzy this week, and wanted to get this out because... well, you'll see. Twisty, very twisty. 
> 
> Slightly shorter chapter than normal because... ANGST... and we can only cope with a certain amount of that at times like these can't we? 
> 
> Anyway, hope you er... enjoy?... this chapter! Let me know what you think, it means the world to me. 
> 
> V  
> xxxx

It was just over two weeks later when the letter came to the keep. The place was alive with activity when the messenger rode under the portcullis early in the morning. There was a wedding happening only a few days hence after all, and any number of people were hurrying to and fro in order to make it happen. The messenger handed his letters over to the steward and made to look for food and warmth as a just reward (as well as goodly sum) after he’d delivered his precious items.

For his part, Dunstan was quick to deliver the letters to Armie in the records room – it was beginning to take on some semblance of order with Timothée’s careful diligence, so he now had some space to work in the room, which was much more comfortable than the small desk in his own chambers. Timothée had scolded him more than once when he’d tried to put some document or other into the wrong pile, showing him where such things now lived, and how they were organised. It made his life much easier, and he was beginning to be able to put his hand on some document or other when he needed it. It would make the gathering of the quarterly rents much easier, that was for sure.

It was midmorning, and the light was good from outside through the windows (hence the reason this was the records room, because the light in here was one of the best in the castle), so Armie had taken the opportunity to do some more reading and writing that he’d been putting off for a few days, when Dunstan knocked at the door.

‘Come in,’ he said, and the door swung open. Timothée was working on transcribing a worn and faded document back from the time of his grandfather’s lordship, and didn’t look up as the steward came in.

‘Letters my Lord,’ said Dunstan putting them on his desk, ignoring the Frenchman. Dunstan and the other servants had quickly got used to Timothée’s presence, usually somewhere near Armie, as he still didn’t feel all that confident venturing out on his own. Armie thought this wise, because as much as he had instructed his servants to treat Timothée as a guest, he couldn’t guarantee his security if he were to wander off on his own. Hopefully soon it wouldn’t be an issue, but for now it was probably best if Timothée kept a low profile.

‘Thank you, Dunstan,’ said Armie, ‘Could you see that the messenger is well fed before he goes on his way?’

‘Already seen to my Lord,’ said Dunstan, giving a short bow. Armie nodded, and the steward left the room. He flicked through the pile that Dunstan had put down on the surface to see what delights awaited him. Some of them could be handed over to Jennings to deal with as they were basic administrative issues, but others definitely required his attention and a measured response.

One letter in particular caught his eye; he didn’t recognise the seal at all, and it looked a little weathered and bent, as if it had travelled a long way. He slid his thumb under the wax and carefully pulled it free, setting the seal aside on the wooden surface, opening the letters four corners and spreading it flat on the desk to read. It was written in a close but elegant hand, in formal and fluent French.

_Monsieur,_

_I assume in this letter that I address my brother’s captor rather than my brother himself. I write in the hope that my brother remains well and protected in your care, but I write with terrible news. I imagine that you must be the one to break this to him, as you are the one reading this, and I pray that you break it to him in as a gentler way as possible. As for yourself I imagine that this news will also cast whatever plans you might have made into doubt._

_Our father is dead._

_There is little easy way to discuss this, as to do so brings tears to my eyes and I have to fight my own emotions in order to continue putting pen to paper. Our enemies took advantage of my brother’s absence in the King’s army to close in, something which my father refused to inform my brother of, not wishing to tear him away from his duty to his King. When no news was heard of my brother for a while, those devil bound enemies took their opportunity to strike. A pretender to my father’s titles – a cousin on my mother’s brothers side - laid claim to the lands that would have been my brother’s in the future, determining that he himself would be the one to hold them instead. He had the men, and he had money._

_He murdered my father in cold blood. God strike him down for his wickedness._

Underneath this there was a large smudge, pooled with pale ink that spoke of a tear. The letter resumed a little further down the paper, underneath the mark.

_Excuse me, my emotions are heightened when I speak of such things. I only escaped by the grace of God, my betrothed determining that he had gone long enough without our marriage taking place, that I was to accompany him and his mother to their estate. We were married the following day; only a few days before this tragedy then unfolded. I only know of you and your schemes at all because of the letter that arrived at our estate only a few days before I departed._

_But news of my marriage is not why I write, and such happy details are not meant for one who would take so much from my family, even when there is little more to take. All that needs to be said is that I am safe, and I would have you tell this to Timothée. But there is nothing left for anyone to take, not even you, for we are brought so low that there is no more that we can give. There is no house of Chalamet-Aubert anymore, for it is has been taken over by rogues and villains. The only hope we hold is in the love my husband’s family bear to me, and the kindness of Timothée’s captor. Something which I do not hold much store by, but hope that as times past I will be proved untrue._

_I pray you good sir, please be kind to my brother. Do not harm him, despite the dire news this letter contains. You would have known sooner rather than later, when the snake who has taken everything from us makes himself known to you. His words will almost certainly tell you to do away with brother, for he is a challenger to his unlawful grip upon what is not rightfully his. I beg you sir, do not listen to him. For as God is good, and tells us to be merciful on those less fortunate than ourselves, I hope that you find the grace within yourself to not cast my brother aside now that there is no profit in you keeping him alive and whole. He is my only family in the entire world, and even if I never see him again, I would wholeheartedly like to know that he is safe. If you can give me this, sir, then I will say prayers for your soul every night until the breath leaves my body for the final time._

_Yours truly,_

_Lady Pauline de la Roche (née Chalamet-Aubert)_

Armie let out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding.

He read the letter again, to make sure he understood its contents, before his eyes flicked to Timothée, his dark head still bent over his work. How on this good earth was he to break this news to the young man before him? How did he tell him that his entire world has been torn asunder? His eyes flicked down to the paper again, the words blurring a little as he stared for too long without really seeing the writing before his eyes. Even though it was not his grief the letter spoke of, he felt a prick of pain somewhere beneath his ribcage for the anguish he would now inflict.

‘Armie?’

He looked up when he heard Timothée speak; his voice breaking him out of the motionless reverie he was stuck within.

‘Hmm?’

‘You’re staring,’ said Timothée, ‘If you stare much harder at that piece of parchment, it’ll probably catch fire.’

Armie huffed a meaningless chuckle at his words, before folding the paper in half and tucking it in his jerkin.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘We’ve been in here long enough, and the air is getting a little stuffy. Let’s go outside.’

Timothée looked a little surprised, but he nodded after a moment, ‘Alright, but I need to get a cloak.’

‘As do I – I will meet you in the courtyard in a few moments,’ he said, getting to his feet, making sure that the letter was firmly stowed and would not slip free. He did as he had said; gathering a heavy cloak, for it was cold outside, and waited at the bottom of the steps to the keep. Timothée appeared a few moments later, a heavy cloak about his shoulders. He smiled at him, and he tried to smile back, but found his lips wouldn’t turn upwards even in the façade of happiness. If he noticed something strange, Timothée tactfully didn’t say anything.

‘Come, let us go to the orchard,’ said Armie, ‘It’s a fine place to walk around.’

He was aware of stares following them as they walked, but he ignored them, and strode ahead – Timothée a pace or two behind him. He only slowed down when he reached the midst of the trees, turning to meet the gaze of Timothée as he hurried to keep up.

‘What is it?’ he said, ‘You walk as if the very hounds of hell were on you heels!’

Armie looked down at his feet before reaching under his jerkin for where he had tucked the letter. Perhaps it would be better to have the words of his sister tell him; a familiar hand and voice, than for it to come from his mouth. There was no _good_ way to deliver news such as this, but perhaps a loving voice might soften the blow.

‘This letter arrived this morning,’ said Armie, ‘From your sister.’

Timothée’s eyes widened in delight and he reached out to take it from him, but Armie held it back for a moment, hesitant, knowing what it contained. For some reason, there was something about Timothée that made him want to withhold hurt from him, as one would a close friend.

‘What is it?’ said the younger man, his smile faltering as he realised Armie wasn’t just going to hand it over, ‘Why do you hold it back from me?’

Armie licked his lips, finding them dry, and his tongue like a leaden weight in his mouth. He swallowed before he managed to speak; ‘It does not bring glad tidings.’

‘What, why not?’ said Timothée urgently, his eyes darting from his face and then back to the letter, as if by looking enough times it would reveal its contents, ‘Is she alright? Is she well?’

Rather than delay, and with only that warning, Armie held the letter out to him. Timothée snatched it immediately, unfolding the edges, his eyes devouring the words his sister had written. Armie knew the exact moment when he had read the terrible news that the letter contained as he let out a pained moan that sounded like that out of a wounded animal, and sank to his knees on the cold ground. His face looked like that of a ghost as his eyes darted across the page, hoping against hope that it would say something different he read it again. When it didn’t he scrunched the letter in his hand, holding it against his mouth as if that would stop the moans of pain emanating from his lips. His eyes were screwed shut, tears running freely down his face, and he was rocking back and forward slightly from knees to ankles.

‘Timothée -,’

He spoke after a moment but was cut off when Timothée gave a yelp, forcing him to take a step or two forward and place a hand on the other’s shoulder.

‘Don’t touch me,’ Timothée spat immediately, and it was the most venom that Armie had heard in his voice, ever since they had met, his voice alone forced him to withdraw his hand as if burned. The boy choked on his sobs, his breath uneven and wrenched from his pained body.

‘Timothée -,’

‘You did this!’ Timothée’s head shot up, his eyes filled with such hatred that Armie took a step back, repelled merely by his stare. He felt as if he had dived into the lake in the midst of winter, the way that Timothée’s eyes doused him in a sluice of utter cold.

He fumbled over his response, ‘I assure you I had nothing -,’

‘I should have been there!’ Timothée yelled, getting up off the floor. His face was streaked with tears, but he was no longer crying, his hysteria taking over from his initial despair even though his voice thick with the tears still unspilled in the back of his throat, ‘If I had been there this wouldn’t have happened!’

‘I don’t think that’s tr-,’

Armie was shocked a moment later when Timothée shoved him hard in the chest, forcing him to take an involuntary step backwards, gasping as he stopped himself from stumbling. He tried again, wanting to somehow console the young man who was falling apart in front of him.

‘Whoa, Timothée, I -,’

The next thing he knew his entire vision had blurred as he was rocked by a hard punch to his left cheek, swiftly followed by a hard blow to his gut. He thought that he momentarily saw stars at the sheer force of the blow, his ears ringing with a sound like continuous church bells, and he heaved to take in a breath, winded like a gasping fish out of water. It took him several moments to be able to draw breath again, the tight feeling in his gut uncoiling only slowly as he managed to coax wisps of air back into his tortured lungs. He spat onto the cobbled path below him, seeing a little blood as he did so; the blow had made him bite his tongue. When his head had stopped feeling like it would fall of his shoulders – Timothée could sure pack a punch for his size – he looked up and realised the younger man had fled; the path in front of him was empty.

‘Fuck,’ Armie whispered under his breath, still collecting himself, his breathing still a little uneven and shallow.

Where the hell would Timothée have gone? He couldn’t have gone far that was for sure.

Armie quickly weighed up his options; he could call for the guard and have them split into groups to search for him, but that would lead to questions as to what happened, and Timothée could get hurt if they came across him before he did. The younger man was like a wounded animal in a cage, and was likely to lash out again. No, he definitely didn’t want that to happen. It was better if he found him on his own. As obvious as it was, he thought the best place to start was probably his room – Timotheé wouldn’t have been able to take his assigned horse without the stable boys causing some kind of trouble, and Armie imagined that he would want to avoid any and all communication as he fled to wherever he had gone. The best place to do so was probably his room; to gather himself together and figure out what to do next. He was probably panicking as well; he’d just attacked the man who held the power of life and death over him.

Armie knew he had to find him, and fast.

He could feel his face swelling and tightening as he strode back towards the keep, and his belly ached from the other blow. He ignored the calls of his sergeant-at-arms who blatantly thought something was amiss. Maybe he’d seen Timothée run past and wanted to know what the hell was going on.

He took the stairs to the keep two at time, hurrying up the tight stone spiral once inside to the top floor and the living quarters therein. There were wet footsteps on the stone steps, which he thought boded well, as it showed that someone from outside had come up here very recently. He couldn’t be sure that the footprints belonged to Timothée, but he hoped against hope that they did.

The door to Timothée’s chambers was closed, but when he tried the latch he found that it hadn’t caught and it swung back on its hinges easily. It was quite dark inside, only the meagre light of the tiny window, the dim light from the dampened hearth, and a few candles provided brightness in the gloom.

Timothée was curled in a heap in the middle of the floor, on one of the rugs that had been thrown down to cover the chilled stone. It was as if he had dropped, wounded, unable to continue on any further. The floor probably seemed like as good a place as any to curl up and await his fate. 

‘Have you come to arrest me?’

The quiet murmur came from a throat nearly closed with grief, all the fight of the last twenty or so minutes completely drained from his body, as if the emotional exhaustion had just caught up with him.

‘No,’ said Armie softly, taking a step into the room and closing the door softly behind, sliding the bolt across it, ‘ _No,_ I haven’t come to arrest you.’

He moved forward another step or two, carefully, not wanting to give Timothée any reason to strike again. He truly did not want to fight the younger man.

‘ _I hit you_ ,’ Timothée mumbled, not moving from where he was lying, even to turn to face him.

‘I noticed,’ said Armie, taking another step forward, ‘If I come over to you, are you going to hit me again?’

Timothée didn’t respond verbally, but Armie saw the miniscule shake of his head from where he was standing, enough for him to take another step and sit down on the floor about a yard from the miserable curled-up figure of the young man. He was shaking with cold and with grief, the cloak providing no shield from the ice that had almost certainly taken up residence inside his body.

‘Timothée – Timmy…,’ he said softly, putting a hand out and placing it on his shoulder, ‘I am so, _so_ sorry, for your pain… and for your loss.’

Timothée gave another great gulping sob, as tears welled up once again, ‘My father is dead. My father was _murdered_.’

Armie couldn’t help but feel a tear or two prick at his own eyes at the sheer grief held in Timothée’s voice. He knew loss; but to have it come to you so suddenly and with such pain attached was something he could not recognise.

‘I am sure he has found his place in God’s kingdom,’ he said somewhat lamely, knowing that such sentiment did little for one wrapped in the cloak of grief, ‘And He delivers just punishment to those who are deserving of it.’

He wasn’t a priest, so he didn’t quite know why he felt the need to speak like this. Then again, he didn’t quite know what else he might say, in order to provide any sort of comfort.

‘Why do you care?’ Timotheé asked after a moment, ‘I am nothing anymore; I have nothing, and I am nobody. I am worthless to you.’

‘That’s not true,’ said Armie softly, ‘What you are to me, and your supposed value are unimportant right now. You need time to grieve without worrying about that.’

Timothée sat up suddenly and whirled to face him, causing Armie to lean back afeared he might be struck again and attempting to be ready for it, ‘Why are you being like this? Why are you being so good to me? Don’t you understand; _I have nothing to give you!_ You might as well cast me out onto the streets, or kill me …’

‘Do you really think so little of my character that I would do that?’ Armie whispered, slightly hurt that Timothée thought this of him.

Timothée didn’t respond, except in the tears that spilled down his already grief-streaked cheeks. His eyes and nose were red, and looked puffy with his sadness. He looked a picture of misery, and Armie wanted nothing more than to give him some comfort, any comfort, if he could.

He lifted one arm, in an unmistakeable gesture to invite the other man closer. It was what he used to do to William when he was younger and had fallen from his horse, or been bruised in a scrap with a stable boy, and now he offered that same to Timothée. The younger man understood the gesture and after a moment, after glancing from Armie’s face to the outstretched arm a few times, he let out another sob before he dragged himself the short distance across the floor, allowing Armie to draw him in. His head fell onto his shoulder, and he let himself over to crying once again, silent sobs shaking his entire form. Sitting crossed legged, Armie enveloped in both his arms, letting his grief exhaust him, but also letting him know that there was someone who cared enough to offer something to help. Armie couldn’t take his pain away, or reverse what had happened, but he could provide, perhaps, the tiniest bit of comfort to the man currently breaking apart in his arms.


	14. A Joyous Occasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The bells in the castle chapel had been ringing for a long time now, sounding out the accompaniment to this joyous day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, 
> 
> Hope you're all staying safe and well, and that the news cycle recently isn't driving you too... um... crazy. I for one have made counting electoral college votes a new hobby of mine, and I'm not even American. BUT, that aside, I figured, today of all days, we could all do with a little bit of fiction and fantasy to escape from reality... 
> 
> I hope you like this chapter - I'd be extremely interested to know your thoughts. I was trying to achieve something with the scene at the end, and I'd be interested to know what you think. There's certain things it's **not** _supposed_ to be... *cough* sexy *cough*, and I'd like to know whether that came across properly.
> 
> Um, few historical notes at the end. Also, where Timothee speaks and it's in " " and italic - is him speaking English. 
> 
> Once again, thank you so so much for all your wonderful feedback and thoughts, it truly inspires me to keep writing and makes me so happy. An especial shoutout to LostCol and Jolieprudence who both sent me the most wonderful of messages this week about this story. It means the world. <3
> 
> Stay safe, stay sane, and tell social media to eff off if it's doing your head in... 
> 
> Love
> 
> V  
> xxx

He was getting married today.

He was looking in the mirror that had once again been brought to the floor space in the centre of his chambers, held up by two serving boys, so he could examine his reflection. He had to admit, the tailor had done a good job – his cream surcoat fitted beautifully, and was embroidered with golden thread, emblems of his house depicted in the cloth. His breeches were in the same cream, with a golden silk slash running through them, and his dancing slippers were made to match. He would wear his lordly coronet into the chapel, although it was currently sitting aside on the short table near the door; he didn’t want to put it on until he had to, as he felt awkward and conspicuous wearing it. Over the top of his surcoat he would wear a cloak, fastened by a golden tassel across his chest and under one arm; the cloak was deep blue, with the insignia of his house, once again, woven in gold into the heavy cloth. His father had worn this cloak to his own wedding, when he had married Armie’s mother, so he thought it fitting that he too would wear the item on what was hopefully to be an auspicious day. He peered in the mirror closely; there was a slight bruise visible on his left cheek where Timothée had struck him only days before. Thankfully, it hadn't come up too much, and wasn't overly noticeable. Oddly, it was the bruise on his ribs that was worse, but thankfully nobody would see that if he didn't want them to. He sighed as he straightened up, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt to make sure they sat right.

Even now, standing in his chambers, he could hear the bells peeling across the city. The marriage of the lord was an excuse for everyone to have a feast and a gathering, not just those invited into the castle. The bells in the castle chapel had been ringing for a long time now, sounding out the accompaniment to this joyous day.

As for himself, he wasn’t exactly sure what he felt. He knew it wasn’t joy, but it wasn’t dread either. It just was. As if he were being carried along through the day without being an active participant. It was something that he had to do, something that was beneficial to both him and to his demesne, and so he would do it. Having the Percy’s onside would be extremely useful, especially given the worrying reports that had been coming across the border, growing more concerning each time a new one arrived from either James or Duncan. He tried to push that thought to the back of his mind; he had ordered his captains to call the militias, and to prepare his standing men, as it was clear that the Scots were preparing something bigger than their usually raiding bands… but today wasn’t for thinking about that. Today he couldn’t do anything about that, and he resolutely refocused back on what was to unfold in the next few hours.

Lady Alice had arrived at the keep yesterday, but as tradition and decorum dictated she had been sequestered away from view since then, and he hadn’t even had the opportunity to greet her. The first time he would see her would be in the aisle in the castle chapel. They could have been married in the cathedral in the midst of the city, but Armie had preferred the idea of a quieter, more private ceremony, something which Alice’s father had agreed to, if only to keep expenses down. He was paying enough in the form of her dowry, he probably thought, and did not wish to be asked to contribute to an overly extravagant wedding.

He nodded to the two boys holding the mirror and they hastened to put it away, covering it back up in its protective furs. Judging by the light from outside he had a little while until noon when he was required to be in the chapel, but the last thing he wanted was to be late to his own wedding.

Before he walked over there, however, he wanted to check on Timothée.

He had been doing this for a few days now, ever since Tim had received the devastating news from his sister. The Frenchman had shut himself up in his room, not even coming down to the hall for meals. Armie had put out that he was unwell with some kind of fever, and ordered that his serving boy take him food and anything else that he might send up to him. Aside from that the Frenchman was left alone to his own devices. Mostly. Armie insisted on sitting with him in his room, just to let the other man know that he was there when and if he wanted to talk about it. He understood grief, but he couldn’t imagine what it was to have it delivered in such a powerful and devastating blow.

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he also liked to check in on Timothée regularly to make sure he wasn’t going to do anything stupid when he was gripped by his despair. He didn’t think he would be driven to that extreme – at least he desperately hoped not – but he liked to think that his continued concern for Timothée’s wellbeing was at least doing something to help, rather than to hinder. On the first day he’d spent hours sitting, well into the night, listening to Timothée fall asleep – his sobs turning into muffled noises of sleep.

He knocked on Timothée’s chambers’ door, hearing nothing from inside. This had been fairly standard in the past few days, but he thought it polite to announce himself before just walking straight in. He pushed the door open after a moment and was greeted, as usual, by general darkness only pierced by the slight sunlight coming in through the small window uncovered by the tapestry hanging up next to it. Armie peered into the gloom and could see the lump underneath the counterpane, telling him that Timothée was lying in bed, possibly asleep.

‘Timothée?’ he said quietly.

‘I’m awake,’ came the mumbled reply, but no movement from the bed.

‘Are you going to come to the feast today?’ he asked, moving further into the room, lighting a few more candles so a bit more light pierced through the gloom.

There was no immediate response, but he saw a movement which he assumed was the figure in the bed rolling over. A moment or two later he sat up; his face drawn from exhaustion, his eyes puffy from tears both shed and unshed.

‘Do you want me to?’

Armie sat down on the end of the bed, looking at the miserable figure that Timothée currently cut.

‘Only if you _want_ to,’ said Armie, ‘I’d like you to, and I think it might be… better… than being in this room?’

Timothée sighed, ‘I suppose I could try.’

‘Well that’s a start,’ he said, ‘The food will be good,’

‘That’s always a draw,’ said Timothée with the ghost of amusement in his voice.

‘I know the serving boys and girls are excited for the second feast this month,’ said Armie, ‘More than they’ve had this year so far…’

There was a soft silence in the dark of the room after this statement.

‘Aren’t you going to be late?’ said Timothée, and then, looking at him, ‘You look good.’

‘Thank you,’ he said with a slight smile, ‘And no, I’ve got a while yet until I have to be at the chapel.’

‘The bells have been sounding for hours,’ said Timothée offhand, a brief glance up at the window as if he would be able to see the church from here.

‘It’s an excuse for everyone to celebrate.’

There was quiet for a moment, before Timothée shivered. Armie wasn’t surprised, it was very cold in here, as it had seemingly been hours since the fire had been going strong.

‘I’ll get your serving boy to draw you a bath,’ said Armie, ‘And to get a fire going in here.’

Timothée’s face instantly crumpled, as if he was going to start crying again.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, as he tried to collect himself, ‘I’m not used to being so useless. It’s pathetic.’

‘Hey,’ said Armie, cutting him off, ‘It’s not pathetic. You’ve had terrible news and it’s been a shock. It’s alright if that takes time to heal.’

‘We’ve all had hardships in our lives,’ said Timothée.

‘Yes,’ said Armie, seeing no point in arguing with him on this particular point, ‘But we all cope with it in different ways.’

Timothée’s eyes sought his, bright and clear, despite the hidden tears still threatening to spill.

‘I don’t understand you,’ he whispered, almost as if to himself.

Armie was slightly taken aback by the sentiment, ‘What do you mean?’

‘Most people would have thrown me in the dungeon or worse, the second they found out I would have no value to them. But you haven’t; you’re being nice to me. As far as I know you’ve not told anyone about my change in status, and it perplexes me as to why you’re doing it,’ said Timothée on a shuddery breath.

Armie shifted slightly, ‘Well we’ve been through the first point; you do still have value to me. You’re clever, you’ve been helping me in the records room in the way that I would have to pay dearly to find otherwise, you’re good company, and you’re kind. But it’s not just about that. I like to consider myself a decent man, a follower of sorts of the chivalric code, such as it is, and that teaches all of us to be good to those around us, to be kind to those who have need of it.’

Timothée bit his lip, ‘I’m just worried you will grow tired of being kind to me.’

Armie couldn’t help but smile at that, ‘I’ll let you know if you’re ever in danger of that becoming the case.’

For the first time in days, since the letter had arrived, Timothée smiled, properly this time. The gesture didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was a start, Armie thought.

‘Are you nervous?’ Timothée asked, groping around for a change of topic.

Armie chuckled under his breath, ‘Should I be?’

Timothée shrugged, ‘I don’t know, I would be. It’s a lot of responsibility.’

‘A wife?’ Armie asked

‘Well, yeah… and everything that comes with it. I wouldn’t want to disappoint her.’

Armie laughed again despite himself, and despite the fact that he was fairly sure that what flashed through his mind was not what Timothée had been referring to, ‘Plenty of wine and I’m sure I’ll be fine. It hasn’t been that long, and I’m sure I’ll remember.’

‘What -?’ Timothée started, and then catching sight of his face, realised Armie was making fun of him, and threw one of the cushions from his bed at his head. Armie caught it, and chucked it back, hitting him square in the face, laughing at Timothée, who then also started to laugh. Just like the smile, it had been nearly a week since Armie had heard him laugh, and he felt a confusing pang in his gut when he realised he had missed that noise. He instantly squashed that thought, before it bubbled up inside of him to something that he didn’t want to deal with, especially not on his wedding day.

‘Well, you’ll have to let me know how it goes,’ said Timothée still chuckling a moment later, ‘And whether or not she was _disappointed_.’

**

Armie’s feet brought him to the altar almost by default it seemed. He couldn’t really remember the steps he’d taken to get from Timothée’s chambers to the chapel and then up to the altar. All he knew is that now he was standing in front of seventy or so people, made up of important guests, his retainers, a few visitors who had come with the Percy contingent, and of course the priest, Father McEnery, who was smiling warmly at him as they waited for the bride to arrive.

In later years, if anyone asked him if he remembered his wedding day, he would honestly have to reply that it came in bits and pieces, like portraits painted, rather than continuous like the scenes of a play. Alice, when she arrived, was wearing a beautiful blue dress, that matched the colour of his cloak, her auburn hair spilling loose about her shoulders, signalling her purity. She did look very pretty, Armie thought. He wasn’t exactly sure that he desired her, but he wasn’t blind, and could see that she cut a very nice figure in her beautiful clothes and with her hair prettily arranged. It being October, she had some late blooming cream dahlia flowers pinned into her tresses, adding to the prettiness of the picture.

Her father brought her up to the altar, and after confirming with the priest his intention to give his daughter into the care of the man standing before them, both Armie and Alice knelt to hear the wedding service and then mass. Like weddings he had attended in the past, the service was long, and Armie’s knees were aching by the time he was raised up by Father McEnery, who with a smile pronounced them man and wife. He slid the Celtic design silver wedding band onto Alice’s right hand before he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, to which she blushed a little, a small smile gracing her face.

The serious part of the day over with, the festivities began in earnest, and they were whisked back to the hall to begin the feast. This time, thankfully, nobody was wanting Armie’s undivided attention, so he was able to actually eat much of the delicious food that was being passed around. He whiled away the hours as course after course was served, sending dishes down to people with a nod for his favour, talking to his wife (that still felt strange for him to think), to her father, and to other guests that he had invited to join them at the top table. In the back of his mind, however, he kept one eye out to see whether Timothée would make it down to the hall. He hadn’t been there when the feast had started, that was for certain, as Armie had specifically looked for him at the time.

By the time the dancing started (after a short mummers play) Armie was well in his cups; not drunk precisely, but certainly merry enough that he didn’t feel awkward leading his new wife in a lively dance around the space created by pushing some of the tables aside. He made it back to his chair, flushed with the exertion and in need of drink.

‘That looked like fun,’ a voice beside and just behind his chair intoned.

He jumped and whipped around to see Timothée standing there, wearing the clothes he had worn to the feast a few weeks ago. He looked a little rumpled, but despite that, no one would suspect the turmoil that was going on inside of him.

‘You made it!’ said Armie jovially, getting up and drawing him for an embrace, something which seemed to surprise Tim slightly, as he stiffened, before he returned the gesture and patted Armie solidly on the back.

‘Are you feeling alright?’ Armie asked, sitting down once again, ‘Have you had something to eat?’

‘I went down to the kitchens before I came here,’ said Timotheé, ignoring the first part of his question, ‘And cook managed to salvage something for me before the waste got disposed of or transformed for meals tomorrow.’

‘She’s good like that,’ said Armie with a smile, ‘I used to sneak down there all the time when I was a child, and she’d make sure I always came away with something sweat or suety to eat. The tutor who I’d snuck away from didn’t always appreciate me being late to his lessons.’

‘I’ll bet,’ said Tim, a little bit of laughter in his eyes, ‘I even managed to ask her for something in English.’

‘That’s great,’ said Armie, ‘Really?’

‘Yup; “ _is there food from the feast left, please?_ ”’ said Timothée, showing off some of the English he’d picked up.

‘Not bad!’ said Armie jovially, ‘You even managed to remember the please! I’m sure she appreciated the effort.’

‘I’m not sure my structure was quite right, but she definitely understood me and I got fed,’ said Tim with a grin, ‘So all good in the end.’

Armie chuckled and patted his hand which was resting on the arm of his chair.

‘Oh Timothée,’ Alice appeared beside the pair of them, ‘Glad you could join us; I didn’t see you at the ceremony.’

Timothée swept her a deep bow, ‘No My Lady, I was required elsewhere. Congratulations and blessings on this happy day. If I may be so bold as to say that you look as fair as a May morning today.’

Alice blushed a little in pleasure at his pretty words, and Armie couldn’t help but smile at Timothée’s talent for courtly talk. He would do well down in London or Winchester, he thought, if the circumstances were different. With a face like one of the angels in the paintings on the chapel walls, and a talent for words and French poetry, the ladies of the court would undoubtedly be falling over themselves to spend time with him.

‘Would you like to dance my Lady?’ asked Timothée, holding his hand out to Alice after a glance at Armie, who’d nodded in response. Alice curtsied slightly in response, took his hand, and together they went back to the dancefloor.

It was getting well on into the evening, he was slouched in his carved chair watching some of the dancers, a cup of wine held in right hand, and the crowd was very merry from the free-flowing wine and beer, when Alice rose from her seat. She had sat down to rest after dancing many rounds, both with her ladies and with others who had asked both her permission and Armie’s. She told her chief lady in waiting that she would be retiring for the evening, and a few brief whistles were heard as the ladies withdrew from the hall. It wouldn’t be seemly for the other ladies to remain once the bride had departed for the evening, so his sister too bid her leave, and departed for her own chambers. Armie watched Alice go, knowing that he was in for a ribbing from his men now, something that he would have to take on the chin good-naturedly. He didn’t mind – they were just having a bit of fun.

He waited for a while, until he had finished the wine he was holding, before he too announced that he would be retiring. This was when the ribaldry really started, and the men left in the hall all cheered or made some kind of joke. He waved them away with a hand, a chuckle on his lips. He motioned to his pages, to Matthews and Henry, and even glancing at Timothée to know that the gesture included him as well. They disappeared up the stairs and to his own chambers, followed by bawdy cheers from the hall below. It was always customary for such jokes to be made, at any wedding feast he had attended before it had been the case; he just had never been on the receiving end of it before.

‘ _Are you sure you know what to do my lord?’_ he heard yelled up, to which he chuckled. He was fairly sure that he would be alright in that department at least. It had been a while, but he figured that it was a little like riding a horse; one didn’t exactly forgot how it all worked.

Once he was in his chambers his pages helped off with his heavy cloak, coronet, and surcoat, leaving him in just his undershirt, breeches and slippers. Matthews and Henry were stood by the fire, having helped themselves to more wine, whilst Timothée was stood close to the door, looking nervously at the other two men. Armie hadn’t missed the shoulder that Matthews had pushed into Timothée’s back as they had entered the room, which had made him stumble slightly, but he had stayed silent, not wanting to cause a ruckus on his wedding night. He’d have to keep an eye on that more closely in the future.

‘My Lord, if it pleases you, I will take my leave,’ said Timothée after a moment, when Armie had rolled his shirt sleeves back, revealing his forearms. Arms, he noted, which bore quite a few scars these days.

‘Very well,’ he said, ‘Good night, Timothée, thank you for joining me at the celebration.’

‘The honour was mine, my lord,’ said Timothée, bowing, but keeping his eyes fixed on Armie’s before, like a shadow, he slipped out of the room noiselessly, a click of the door indicating that he was gone.

He looked over at the other two men, who were laughing at something one of them said.

‘You drink much more of that, you won’t be able to stand up,’ said Armie with a grin in their direction.

Matthews chuckled, ‘Well, I’m not the one who needs to be able to _stand up_ my lord.’

Armie couldn’t help but roll his eyes in Matthews’ direction, which made his squire laugh all the harder as his pages stepped back, once he was wearing his night robe over his shirt and breeches.

‘Ready, my Lord?’

He sighed and gave a shrug, ‘I guess so.’

Matthews clapped him on the back as the party moved to the door, illuminated only by the candles in the candelabra Henry was holding.

‘Sure you don’t want any advice My Lord?’ Henry joked as they moved along the corridor, ‘Where to stick it maybe?’

Armie elbowed him the ribs, causing him to cough and wheeze as he laughed. It didn’t take more than a few moments until they were outside the lady of the castle’s chambers, Matthews getting in one final joke before they left Armie alone in the corridor, wishing him a good night.

He cleared his throat slightly before raising his hand and knocking.

‘You may enter,’ Alice’s voice came from the other side.

He pushed open the heavy door, the low light of the room casting a dim glow over its inhabitants. The ladies inside, bar Alice, curtsied as he entered. They looked to their mistress who, with a wave of her hand, dismissed them. They moved a little like ghosts, softly across the floor, and around where he stood near the entrance to the chamber.

A moment later, and they were alone. There was a brief silence as they stood for a moment, just the two of them, wondering how to break the moments silence.

Alice moved first, and gestured to the pewter jug on the table by the fire, ‘Would you like a goblet of wine, my lord?’

‘Yes please,’ said Armie, ‘And please, call me Armie. You’re my wife, married before God, we need to be on first name terms.’

Alice smiled at him softly as she handed him his cup of wine, ‘Armie.’

He shucked off his robe and slippers, leaving him in just his undershirt and breeches. He didn’t miss her gaze travelling up and down his body, although he couldn’t quite tell what she was thinking.

‘Would you like to sit?’ Armie said, gesturing to the settle at the end of the bed. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do in this instance; most of the women he’d been with in the past he’d paid for. But this was completely different; this was his lady wife, a woman who had never known the touch of man, and who definitely seemed nervous about how the rest of the night would unfold. Above all he needed to be gentle. He took a sip of the wine, even though he didn’t really want to drink much more (it gave him something to do for a moment) before he put the cup down on the floor, slightly under the settle, so it wasn’t in danger of being knocked over. She looked across at him nervously. He could see that she was trying to brave and still, but he could see the nerves in her eyes.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, ‘I’m not going to jump on you.’

She giggled a little at that, despite her nerves, ‘I didn’t think you would; I’m sorry I’m so nervous.’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ said Armie, tucking an errant curl behind her ear, ‘It’s understandable.’

She smiled softly, leaning into his touch despite herself.

‘May I kiss you?’ he asked.

She nodded, a little apprehensively, but leaned in anyway. He smiled despite himself, and gently touched his lips to hers. They were soft, and plumper than most lips he’d kissed before. He brought one hand up to her cheek, gently placing it on her soft skin, his thumb stroking across the smoothness.

A moment later and he slid his arms underneath her much slighter form, lifting her easily from the settle, causing her to squeak slightly in surprise, clutching at his shoulders even though there was no worry about him potentially dropping her. He carried her around the side of the large four poster bed, and laid her gently down on the counterpane, as the blue velvet coverlet had been turned back by her ladies’ maids. He crawled up onto the bed beside her, taking account of the still fearful look in her blue eyes.

All she was wearing was her cream shift, which clung to her body in all the right places; he could see the curves of her breasts and the darkness of her nipples through the thin material, peaked with cold and what he hoped was a little bit of arousal. It was odd, he thought, he didn’t lust after this woman especially, and yet his body was stirring to her despite that.

She clearly didn’t quite know what to do with herself, with her hands or with her body, and simply gazed at him with those wide eyes, as he moved so that he was half above her, nudging her knees apart with his own, giving his a little space to settle. For the next few minutes all he did was kiss her; getting her used to the feel of his body on top of hers, and she became more confident, running her hands up his arms and down his back, feeling his muscles. She spread her legs a little further almost out of instinct it seemed, giving him room to properly situate himself between them, his hand drifting down to the cloth of her shift to draw it up, and over her hips.

She made a noise of surprise when his hand drifted lower, skimming across her hips and down to the apex of her thighs. She made to close her legs out of surprise, but he stroked softly across her inner thigh, and she relaxed a little, although he could still feel the tension in her body. He could feel the dampness gathering there, and he used it to slide his fingers up slightly to where he knew would hopefully feel good, causing her to let out the tiniest little moan, which turned into a gasp of surprise. He’d been taught how to please women by the few he had bedded before, and he used the information he had to make Alice’s back arch and let out a string of mewls of pleasure. There were other ways he knew how to please her, but he didn’t want to shock her this first night; her being a well born noble lady, he thought it best to introduce her to various aspects of sex gently and cautiously, if he introduced them to her at all.

As her breathing sped up and she started rocking her hips into his touch, he thought this was probably a good a moment as any, and the way that his prick was straining against the front of his breeches, his body certainly thought so. He reached down and unlaced them, pushing them down to just above his knees, crawling up her body a little more to position himself properly, using his hand to guide himself into place. He kissed her again, gently, as he insistently pushed forward. She yelped a little in pain and shock, for which he was sorry, but he didn’t stop, until he was fully seated with her. He knew that he was quite large, and that was probably adding to her discomfort. Despite this, he groaned at the feeling; it was warm, wet, and tight, and his cock definitely appreciated it. It felt good; it had been years since he’d had the pleasure like this, in this particular way. He kissed her again, trying to distract from anything uncomfortable as he began to move his hips, his body taking over instinctively.

What with the wine and the feeling surrounding his cock, he knew that this wouldn’t take overly long, and he allowed his body to take over as he drew one of her legs up over his hip, allowing him to slide that little bit deeper within her. He did have the wherewithal to keep stroking her centre of pleasure, which he thought confused her slightly; torn between feelings of discomfort and the strange feelings of warmth and delight that were also licking through her body in sporadic flicks of heat.

He could feel his own completion starting deep in his body, and his thrusts became more animalistic as he buried himself in her body. At the moment of his finish, there was a moment as his eyes screwed tight shut, and the idea of a much more angular body, and a mop of brown curls flashed across his mind. He gasped, both in completion and shock, before spilling within her with a deep groan, which caused her to squeak once again, even if he barely noticed. It took several moments for the fog to clear from his brain, and then he rolled off her and collapsed onto the bed beside her. He resolutely did not want to think about what had happened only a handful of moments before. As for Alice, she was silent for a moment or two, until she shifted to pull her nightdress back down and hastily got under the covers.

He rolled up onto one elbow when she’d done so and looked down at her, ‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

She wrinkled her nose slightly but shook her head.

‘Really?’ he asked, knowing that she probably wasn’t telling the truth.

‘Well, a little,’ she said, ‘But it was alright. I’d been told that it would hurt; and it wasn’t as bad as some had said.’

He stroked her cheek with his free hand, trying to offer some comfort, ‘Well at least that’s good, I suppose… Would you like me to stay here tonight?’

She bit her lip, which suggested that she would, but was a little reluctant to ask him directly for anything.

‘It’s alright if you do,’ he said gently, ‘I don’t mind.’

She nodded at that, ‘Then yes, I would like you to stay my lo-er-Armie.’

‘Stay there, keep warm, I’ll put the candles out,’ he said, shifting off the bed and moving around the room, snuffing each of the candles in turn until only the dim glow from the hearth, and one candle on the mantle remained lit. He shucked off his breeches entirely then, and folded them neatly onto the settle which they had sat. Clad only in his nightshirt he climbed under the counterpane, glad for the warmth creating by the pan slid between the sheets hours before.

‘Goodnight Alice,’ he said softly.

‘Goodnight,’ she replied gently, and with that she rolled onto her side away from him, both of them going to attempt to find sleep. In order for him to find any sleep tonight, however, he desperately tried not to think about what had happened at the moment of his own completion, and the idea of the masculine form that had flashed across his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes: 
> 
> 1\. Wedding rings were traditionally placed on the fourth finger of the right hand in the England, until well into the fifteenth century when, for reasons I didn't really discover, it changed to fourth finger of the left hand.  
> 2\. I have no idea whether you can find dahlias in fourteenth century england, but we've had some late blooming ones in our garden throughout autumn and they are BEAUTIFUL, so I stuck them in here.  
> 3\. Men and women of noble households, and even well to do households did not share a bedchamber. This is a fairly modern thing for a man and wife to share a bed. In pre-modern times, sharing a bed was a sign of poverty (i.e. you could only afford one (beds were enormously expensive items of furniture)). The man of the house would visit his wife for conjugal relations, and more often than not, then leave for his own bedchambers. Idk, I bet they both got a better nights sleep because of it... but that's a whole 'nother point!
> 
> I think that's it, but if there's anything else you'd like clarifying, just let me know! 
> 
> Love  
> V  
> xxx


	15. Soldier, Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘And you’re a fighting man; you are useful to me on the field; should it come to that.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Hope you're all keeping well. This chapter is quite meaty on detail, but a bit low on action so to speak. Hope you enjoy it anyway - setting up for the next few chapters anyway. :) Please let me know what you think... it's a bit longer than I usually post, and took me aaaaagggesss to edit. :P there's probably still mistakes in it. 
> 
> Your feedback means the world to me, and I read every message. If I haven't got back yet, I apologise, and will do so asap. 
> 
> Stay safe, stay well, stay entertained... 
> 
> Love 
> 
> V  
> xxxx
> 
> P.S - slloooowwwwwwwwwww buuurrrrrrrnnnnn. Sloooooooowwwwwwwwwwwww.
> 
> A/N - I have taken a few liberties here with medieval literature, and think I will continue to do so. The Ballad of Robin Hood is a key primary source for historians when thinking about medieval life, but it is thought that it wasn't composed until the late fourteenth century, so it wouldn't actually have been written by the time of this story. I'm also probably going to make some references to Petrach at some point, he too was a contemporary to this story, so his works wouldn't have reached northern england by this point. But y'know... authors license. :P

Timothée was awoken abruptly by a loud knocking on his door, before it opened with a crash, and Armie strode in, his heavy riding boots clicking on the stone floor. He wondered wildly in his sleep addled mind if the taller man had finally changed his mind and had come to arrest and throw him in the dungeon after all. He’d been down there once, just purely out of his own sense of morbid curiosity, to see where he might have ended up. He’d only stayed down there for a few minutes, peering into the gloom and seeing the damp dripping down the walls, illuminated only by dank sconces on the walls. There had been no one in there when he had ventured down, other than a supposed horse thief being held in the end cell until his jury trial at the end of the week.

‘Get up,’ said Armie, coming around to the side of the bed, ‘The Scots have crossed the border, they’re massing to the North.’

He felt a little exposed, half lying, in just his night shirt, whilst Armie stood towering over him. He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake away the sleep at this surprising news, and wondering what it had to do with him.

‘We’re going to the mustering grounds,’ explained Armie, throwing some clothes on the end of the bed which he assumed were for him, ‘And you’re coming with me.’

‘I am?’ said Timothée, still perplexed, ‘Why?’

‘It wouldn’t serve me well to leave you here whilst I am away,’ said Armie, ‘And you’re a fighting man; you are useful to me on the field; should it come to that.’

He could see the logic in Armie’s words, and shoved back the counterpane to begin throwing on the clothes that Armie had brought in. He had to drop his night clothes to the floor to do so, and instantly felt the rush of cold over his bare skin as he did so. He hastily reached for the other clothes to cover himself, if only because of the intense chill that permeated the room. There was an undershirt, followed by a much thicker overshirt, surcoat, thick breeches, woollen socks, belt, and thick soled riding boots. These were clearly clothes meant for being outside, possibly for some time. He looked across at Armie, who was dressed much the same, apart from the fact that he was already wearing his riding cloak, emblazoned with the insignia of his house, and a had a long dagger strapped onto his belt. He wasn’t yet carrying his sword, as his squire would have that.

‘Come,’ said Armie when he saw that he was dressed, ‘Your serving boy will see to your room; we must go.’

And with that he strode out of the room again, clearly expecting him to follow. Timothée had only woken about three minutes previously, but he had the wherewithal to throw a large neckerchief he had procured around his neck to keep that and his ears warm, before he hurried after the sound of Armie’s boots on the spiral staircase, heading for the courtyard. He hoped that a cloak would be provided for him at some point; to keep off the worst of the wind. He was gratified when, just before he stepped outside, Dunstan shoved a cloak into his arms. It was a little thin, but it was still more than he currently had. He turned and managed a “ _thank you”_ to the steward, but the man had already gone about other business. He would have to remember, when they got back.

The yard was in complete disarray when they emerged through the main door, men tooing and froing in the rainy mist, tacking up horses and putting weapons and armour in carts and wagons, under the watchful eye of various sergeants (and of course the quartermaster) barking orders. There were also several wagons of food being loaded, along with barrels of what he assumed was ale, and possibly water from the nearby spring. The water wouldn’t last too long, but it would be good for a few days at least, possibly a week.

Armie strode across the enclosed courtyard, striding over to Helios who was already tacked up and waiting; the magnificent black warhorse standing at least a hand or two above the other mounts around him. Without aid or a block, Armie swung himself up into the saddle. Timothée looked wildly around for his own horse; the chestnut that had been procured for him in Southampton when they had first arrived. He spotted him amongst the other horses, and after checking the leather girth had been fastened properly, he too swung himself up, although the little bastard of a horse decided to start moving as he did so, so he had to take his seat whilst moving forward. He quickly gained control of the reins, and looked over at Armie who was busy laughing at him.

‘Shut up,’ Timothée said, ‘I haven’t had as much time with him as you have with yours; he doesn’t know me all that well.’

‘True,’ said Armie conceded, ‘Come on then, we’ll go with a small detachment. The others will meet us by this evening.’

He nodded, and dug his heels into the sides of his own mount, following Armie under the portcullis and through the gate. There were about twenty of them in this small party, and they soon broke free of the city walls and were riding across the rugged countryside that surrounded the town.

‘How far is it to the mustering grounds?’ he asked Armie as they rode.

‘About four leagues to the east,’ said Armie, ‘The rest of the men will meet us there. We sent out the messengers as soon as we heard the news, but they’ve been preparing for weeks, so they should be ready. The men will be coming in from the surrounding towns and villages, until the morning, when we will ride to meet the Scots.’

‘Where have they crossed the border?’ asked Timothée, unsure why he was asking, as he didn’t yet know this land.

‘Just north of Brampton,’ said Armie, ‘To the east of Lanercost priory, blocking our way to the priory itself. They’ve set up their camp in the shadow of the Roman wall.’

‘Roman wall?’ he asked. He knew the Romans had had a strong presence in this country, much like they had had in his own, centuries and centuries ago, he assumed that most of it had long disappeared.

‘Yes,’ said Armie, ‘Surely you must have heard of it? The Emperor Hadrian had it started, to keep the Scots at bay. It was built over many decades, or so I understand.’

‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘I think I remember something about it from my history lessons when I was younger, although it was very brief – my tutor mentioned that the Romans had made it this far north…’

‘Yes,’ said Armie, ‘And built over twenty leagues of stone wall to show for it, although a lot of it has been pilfered for the building of local churches and houses around and about.’

‘That makes sense I suppose,’ he murmured, ‘It doesn’t do much good as wall anymore with no one manning it, I suppose?’

‘Well that,’ said Armie, ‘And the fact that as the land has shifted the wall has seemed to shrink.’

‘Shrink?’ he said surprised, ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, the Roman chroniclers talk of the wall being over twenty-foot-high, but now there are parts of it where it’s scarcely taller than I,’ said Armie with a shrug, ‘So unless over half of the stone from the top has been stolen for building, then I can only assume that it’s well… shrunk.’

‘How odd,’ he said, thinking about it, ‘I’d like to see it at some point, perhaps when we are not riding out to yet another battle.’

‘Of course,’ said Armie with a smile, ‘I’ve got a hunting lodge north of the city, where I sometimes go in the springtime, there’s a great section near there to explore; there’s an old garrison building as well. My brother and I explored it when we younger, when I occasionally came back from my squiring position. I found some silver Roman pennies there once…’

‘Sounds like quite the adventure,’ he said.

After that, they lapsed into comfortable silence for the next few miles. It was a relatively challenging ride anyway; off the beaten path, and Timothée had to be careful to direct his mount around the worst of the loose rocks, mud that might move under its hooves and cause it stumble, and other obstacles.

Once they were back on firmer ground, something akin to a road (in the loosest sense of the word), he turned back to Armie, who had dropped back a little as they rode. Armie seemed to notice his glance, and drew up alongside him once again.

‘Not the best way to spend the first day of your marriage,’ he said cautiously, wondering if he was overstepping. They were riding just under the crest of hill, covered from being a silhouette against the top, but the ground here was uneven, so they had to move quite slowly.

‘That’s certainly true,’ said Armie with a small snort, ‘Being roused from bed before dawn by a messenger bearing bad news.’

‘They came into your room?’ he asked, slightly scandalised, and then ventured… ‘You were still with Lady Alice?’

Armie shook his head with a small laugh, ‘Heavens no! I think Alice might have expired on the spot if Jennings had wandered into the bedchamber… Not that I would ever have allowed it, and Jennings knows that of course.’

Timothée couldn’t help but smile at the idea; a ruffled Jennings wondered whether or not to disturb his Lordship from his marriage bed.

‘And Alice didn’t mind?’ he said, ‘When you had to leave?’

‘She didn’t really have a lot of choice,’ said Armie with a shrug, ‘She knew that something was happening with the Scots, had heard it from her father, and of course she knew that I had to go and deal with it.’

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘Just not on the morning after one’s wedding night.’

‘These things don’t wait just because the timing is inconvenient,’ said Armie.

‘I know, I know,’ he said, ‘Just an observation.’

There was a pause. Armie opened his mouth and took a breath, as if he was preparing to say something, but then closed it again, as if thinking better of it. A moment later he spoke again, ‘It’s just a good thing that we’ve had forewarning. Duncan and James have been more than helpful. When they make it home I will reward them; Duncan has a younger brother who wanted a squire’s place. I’m sure I can find a place for him in the household.’

Timothée got the impression that this isn’t what he had been planning to say before, but he ignored that thought as he twisted in the saddle to look back at Matthews, ‘Surely he will be finishing his training soon? What will happen when he does?’

‘When the King returns, he will be knighted; by me – but I need to ask the King’s permission before I do,’ said Armie, ‘And he will be given a lodge of his own. In return he will have to answer the king’s levy, and pay his own level of tax.’

‘He will leave the keep?’ he asked. It was strange, he barely knew the man, and yet he knew that the other man had a deep dislike of him, for whatever reason. He was glad that he would not always be at the keep. Then again, would he himself always be at the keep?

‘Yes,’ said Armie, ‘Although he will always be one of my retainers, and in the event of his death without heirs, the lodge will become mine, or the king’s, dependent on the terms on which it is given.’

‘My father had squires,’ he said, ‘Not many; there were only two in training when I left with the army and took the men. I wonder what has happened to them…’

He tailed off pessimistically. In all probability, they were dead, killed by that murderous bastard who had killed his father, and stolen what was rightfully his. The very thought of it made rage bubble up inside of him, like a pot of boiling water over an open fire. He couldn’t let the feeling overtake him, otherwise he risked losing control. Not something he wanted to do whilst out in the middle of nowhere on horseback.

When he had first heard the news from his sister, grief and despair had overwhelmed him. He was cast utterly adrift in the world. That was still true of course, it had only been a matter of days, but the sucking hole of black grief now had spiked edges; a desperate desire to feel something other than the horrible despair that he had been feeling in the days following the arrival of the letter. He didn’t know what he would do about it; if he could do anything at all. He was a penniless nobody now, totally and utterly reliant on the grace and kindness of the man riding beside him. He sighed and looked furtively across at Armie, sitting strong and confident in Helios’ saddle. He let out a breath; there were worse places he could be in the world, he supposed.

**

They rode into camp towards the end of the afternoon. It was different to the army camps he’d seen before, but oh so depressingly familiar. The camp of the French King had been much bigger than this of course, with what he thought must have been thousands of men in tents. This camp was significantly smaller than that; but with enough tents for several hundred men he thought, perhaps more. Armie had said that men would be coming in from the countryside well into the evening, so this wouldn’t be the full complement, he was sure of it.

‘Do we know how big the Scots’ host is?’ he asked, falling in step next to Armie after they’d dismounted.

‘The messenger that flew in this morning reckoned it could be just over a thousand or so,’ said Armie.

‘Bigger than those we have gathered here, then?’ he said, looking around. He could see the blacksmith had set up a makeshift workshop, and was currently sharpening a hugely long great sword against the stone as he turned it with his feet.

‘For now,’ said Armie, ‘But no matter, we will not meet them tonight.’

A tent had been set up for Armie somewhere in the centre of the camp. It was basic, but still had a little more than most soldiers could expect; there was a makeshift settle, and some furs had been procured from somewhere to add comfort for any sleeping that might take place. From where these had been found, Timothée wasn’t sure, as the supplies from the castle hadn’t yet arrived. Hopefully they wouldn’t be too long; as he hadn’t yet had anything to eat. His stomach decided this was as good a time as any to announce this to the world by giving a heartily loud grumble.

‘Hungry?’ Armie said looking back as he pushed open the flap to the tent.

‘A little,’ he said with a grin, knowing Armie had heard his stomach and it was useless denying it, not that he especially wanted to.

‘I’ve got some bannocks in my pack somewhere…’ said Armie, swinging said pack off his shoulders (despite the fact that Matthews could have carried it), and dug around inside. Wrapped in a cloth were some slightly squashed pastry looking things. Timothée had never eaten these before in his life, but right now he didn’t care one bit as he took one from Armie and began to eat. It was a strange mixture of dough, oats, and some kind of meat, but to his growling stomach it mattered not one bit.

‘We’ll have a council when the others arrive,’ said Armie, looking around, ‘For now… Matthews, can you find Sanderson? I’ve got a job for him.’

‘Yes, My Lord,’ said Matthews, giving a short bow and then exiting the tent.

‘Sanderson?’ Timothée asked, sitting on a rough stool and still ravenously eating the bannock Armie had given him.

‘One of the best scouts I’ve ever known,’ said Armie offhand, reading a note that someone had passed to him when he’d arrived. After a moment he shook his head and made a scathing noise in the back of his throat before dropping the note on another stool to his left.

‘What is it?’ Timothée asked.

‘It should never be like this,’ said Armie, ‘If I had my men who are currently in France, the Scots would never have dared have crossed the border in such force.’

Timothée stopped eating, the bannock half raised to his mouth, ‘A lot of things would be different if the English weren’t currently in France,’ he said quietly.

Armie looked across at him, before he nodded gently in agreement, ‘Indeed they would.’

He looked back down at the bannock in his hand, suddenly robbed of any desire to continue eating it. He nibbled at the edges, thinking that he should at least finish it now that he’d started. He didn’t know when he would get to eat again. Hopefully it would be this evening, but he had enough experience of war to know that nothing was secured, especially food. A moment later, and the man he assumed was Sanderson entered the tent.

‘You asked to see me, My Lord?’ he said, bowing to Armie. The man was speaking English, Timothée recognised, and he could pick up a few words here and there, but not all of it, as Armie turned to him and spoke. Clearly, he was giving him instructions, and he caught the word “reconnaissance” – he was sending him out to spy on the Scottish camp. Sanderson agreed, judging by his tone, and bowed once more before he left.

‘What did you ask him to do?’ he asked, wanting to understand what was going on around him.

‘We need better reconnaissance to know exactly what we’re facing. The reports from Duncan have been very helpful, but a more detailed knowledge of what we’re dealing with will be extremely useful,’ said Armie, ‘You never know, we might be able to gain an advantage of some sort if we know more.’

Timothée couldn’t help but smirk to himself, although he agreed with Armie absolutely, ‘If only the French King had understood that; we might not have lost quite so many battles. Instead he seemed to rely on the tried and tested method of just attempting to overwhelm the opposition with our cavalry… Unfortunately, the new English longbow seems to make short work of those attempts. It is a rather interesting weapon, I have to say.’

Armie snorted, ‘Well that’s certainly true. It has a huge advantage of range over your crossbowmen.’

‘They’re not ours, exactly,’ he said with a shrug, ‘Mostly hired from Italy; Genoa especially. At an enormous cost as well. No wonder the crown is in such debt. He borrows from the Venetians to pay the Genoans, and then from the Sicilians to pay the Venetians… it’s a never-ending cycle.’

‘Money is in short supply in times of war,’ said Armie, ‘Although I won’t pretend to understand it. Whenever the King needs it, he seems to be able to find it, whether it was his in the first place or not – do you want another one of those?’

He had just finished eating his bannock, but shook his head at the offer of more. He didn’t want to appear greedy, and besides, it was quite filling, despite its relatively small size.

‘Have you ever fired a longbow?’ Armie asked him after a moment.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’ve never had the opportunity.’

‘Would you like to?’ he said, ‘I’m sure I could find you one.’

He couldn’t help but let a small smile cross his face, like an eager boy presented with a toy, ‘Yes, I would like that a lot. I used to be quite a good shot when I went out hunting. I’d like to see if I still am, with a much bigger bow.’

‘Matthews!’ Armie yelled, causing his squire to come back in, from where he had been lingering outside, ‘Find us two longbows, and a handful of arrows.’

‘My Lord?’ he said questioning.

‘I want to teach Timothée how to shoot one,’ said Armie.

‘Now, My Lord?’

‘Yes, now,’ said Armie shortly.

Matthews nodded and disappeared once again, to find the asked for longbows. It didn’t take him more than a few moments, before he returned, holding the two weapons in one large hand. Matthews handed them both to Armie, rather than deign to give one over to him directly.

‘Come on then, let’s go try it out,’ said Armie gesturing outside back again.

He followed gleefully, excited to get the opportunity to test the weapon.

‘We’ll need to get out of the camp a bit,’ said Armie, ‘Otherwise it won’t be safe.’

‘Do you need me to come with you, My Lord?’ said Matthews, his voice a little uneasy as they walked back towards where Helios was standing, still fully tacked up.

‘No,’ said Armie, ‘We’ll be fine.’

Timothée knew why Matthews wanted to come with them; he didn’t trust him. He would go so far to say that it wasn’t just a lack of trust; for some reason Matthews loathed him. As a result, he tried to spend as little time in the man’s presence as possible.

‘Get up,’ said Armie, nodding at Helios, ‘Do you need a hand?’

‘Probably,’ he said, looking at Helios’ flank. He could probably scramble up, but knowing that Helios wasn’t overly fond of many humans other than Armie, and that attempting to swing his leg over the broad flank might upset the war horse.

‘Give me your foot then,’ said Armie, cupping his hand for Timothée to put his boot in. He didn’t seem to care that his boots were muddy, and helped swing him into the saddle. A moment later he swung himself into the saddle behind him, and grabbed the reins around his body, his arms close to the side of his chest.

‘We’re not going to go far, we’ll be back soon,’ said Armie, before digging his heels into Helios’ sides and clicking his tongue, the stallion moving off and through the camp. Men were moving back and forth, most of them at ease, without threat of anything in particularly. They moved out the way when they saw Helios coming, some of them saluting or bowing to Armie as he passed.

It didn’t take more than a few moments for them to pick their way out of the camp, and into the countryside back to the west. This is where they had just come from, but clearly, they weren’t going to ride to the east or to the north, where they might run into an errant band of Scots. They definitely did not want that to occur with only the two of them. They didn’t go overly far, just a mile or two, to ensure that firing arrows would be as safe as possible. It wasn’t as if they were in the middle of some metropolis such as Paris or Rome, so they were unlikely to cause any harm.

‘This should do,’ said Armie a moment or two later, and reining in allowed him to slide off the horse first, before he followed suit and dropped to the ground beside Helios’ flank. He turned back to the side of the saddle where he strapped the bows and the quiver, and took them from where he had secured them. He held one of the bows out to Timothée, who took it with great interest. He put the bows end down on the ground, amazed as the tip stretched a handbreadth or so above his head. A moment later he also handed him a leather arm brace, that slid over his wrist, thumb and bare two forefingers on his right hand. This was to stop the string from causing damage to his own hand as he fired. He slid it on gratefully, and secured it.

‘They’re very tall,’ he said, marvelling slightly at the weapon, sliding his hand up and down the wood. It was made of yew, and highly polished. It looked like it had seen a few outings, with the wood a bit notched in places. This would, of course, make it easier to bend than a brand-new bow, despite the supple nature of the young wood. 

‘Well, they’re not called longbows for nothing,’ Armie said with a grin, watching him closely.

He tested the string, probably made of flax to ensure it was as smooth as possible, drawing it back to anchor it against his mouth as he’d always been taught. It was quite an effort to draw it back, bending the wood took some serious strength in the arms, and his bicep strained with the effort of holding it. A moment later and he let it slacken off.

‘Did that look alright?’ he said, looking across at Armie.

‘Yes,’ Armie said, looking at him critically, ‘You let your elbow drop a little as you held the strain though. How long is it since you’ve shot a bow?’

‘A while,’ he admitted with a bit of a flush, ‘Our sword master didn’t think it proper that the son of a marquis learnt to wield a bow, he called it a serf’s weapon.’

‘Possibly one of the reasons that the French keep losing battles,’ Armie muttered under his breath, but Timothée heard him and couldn’t help but chuckle.

‘Quite possibly!’ he said, ‘So, I need to keep my elbow raised, anything else?’

‘Make sure you widen your stance a bit when the arrow is knocked, and raise it to a goodly angle from the ground in order for it to go as far as possible. The wind is behind us here, so it should fly a long distance,’ said Armie, before handing him an arrow. He looked at it; a thick shaft, with a triangular fletching of white and grey goose feathers. The head was a mean double bladed ‘swallowtail,’ both sharp but also heavy enough to cause a punch to any target; strong enough to get through weak points of plate. There was no doubt about it; this was a weapon of war, not a dainty hunting arrow designing to cause as little external damage to the target as possible. No, in fact, this was the opposite. This was designed with maximum damage, and maximum injury, in mind. He vaguely wondered what sort of mind one would have to have in order to be the first to imagine how to inflict maximum damage on a human body, but he quickly shook off that slightly gruesome thought as he knocked the arrow and fitted it to the string.

‘Pull back strong, but not too fast, you don’t want to snap the string’ said Armie to his side, watching him.

He did as he was bid, taking up the stance. A moment later and he was acutely aware of Armie’s hand pressing up on the underside of his elbow, keeping it raised. He felt himself flush as he tried to did as he was bid, but he definitely felt the effort at keeping the bow drawn back enough to raise it.

‘Your feet are a bit too far apart,’ said Armie, stepping close behind him to measure his stance with his own, ‘Move them a bit closer together, and make sure your knees aren’t locked tight.’ He could feel him standing close, and it made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He pushed the feeling down, trying to concentrate on holding the bow steady.

‘Is this alright?’ he muttered.

‘Yes, should be good,’ said Armie, taking a step back, ‘Release when ready.’

He looked past the end of the arrowhead, out into the empty countryside where he was aiming to fire toward, and after a deep breath, let the arrow fly. There was a very slight jarring motion as all the tension was released from his right arm, causing him to take half a step forward as the front of the bow fell. He wasn’t interested in that; however, he was watching the arrow he’d just fired as it tracked higher into the sky and then fell towards the earth in a deadly arc, the speed of it shocking. He almost lost sight of it but he could just about measure where it hit the earth, a fair distance away.

‘Not bad, for someone who hasn’t fired one before,’ said Armie with a grin, also watching it, ‘Wouldn’t quite make it to the front lines though, I don’t think.’

He couldn’t help but giving a light elbow in the ribs to the other man, making him chuckle and act as if wounded.

‘Alright then, I guess you better show me how it’s done,’ he said, giving a mocking bow and gesturing to the floor for Armie to take up the space. The taller man smirked and stepped into the space, flexing his own bow.

‘Did you know there’s a legend about an English archer?’ said Armie, as he fitted his own arrow into the bow.

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah, my mother used to tell stories to my brother and I when we were younger,’ said Armie, still relaxed for a moment, ‘Of a man called Robin of Sherwood, who stole from the rich to give to the poor, whilst also being a wicked shot with a longbow. There’s a ballad about him; next time we have a bard, I’ll get him to sing it.’

‘Sounds like a good man, I’d like to hear it,’ he said, watching carefully as Armie drew the bow back; his strong arms bunching with the effort of drawing back the string. Even for a man like Armie, who had been fighting with weapons all his life, and whose body didn’t have a spare inch on him, still found it an effort to draw it to its full capacity. English bowmen would have to mighty strong to do this in battle, over and over again, and have developed hugely strong forearms. He watched Armie’s stance; his legs no more than shoulder width apart so that he kept his balance, and his elbow nice and high as he breathed in, and then released; his body suddenly robbed of its tension. The arrow flew, whistling away through the air, further than his own had gone that was for sure, before it disappeared from view.

Armie turned to him, a wide smile on his face, ‘What do you think?’

‘Pretty good,’ he said with an answering grin, ‘Further than mine anyway.’

Armie chuckled and shrugged, before grabbing another arrow out of the makeshift quiver strapped to Helios’ flank and held it out towards him.

‘Again?’

He nodded eagerly, reaching for the arrow, hoping this time would be better than the last, even though last time wasn’t too shabby in itself. He was determined to show Armie that he could do this; if he so pleased. Maybe when they returned to the keep they could have an archery contest. He’d have to practice, that was for sure, but if they did, he was determined to beat him. He jokingly pushed Armie out of the way, and took up his stance again.

**

They returned to camp just at the turn of the evening. Timothée could see that even in the few short hours since they had left that the numbers had grown. More wagons had arrived, and there was a smell of cooking on the air. Additional tents had also sprung up, makeshift walkways between them as men found places they might be able to sleep under a little bit of cover. The misty drizzle from this morning had returned, casting a miserable dampness over everything, and causing the men to gather in groups, huddled to stay warm and at least a little dry.

Matthews caught Helios’ bridle as they reapproached the centre of the camp.

‘Everything alright, sir?’ he asked, his eyes uneasily flickering between his master and himself. Timothée couldn’t help but send him a bit of a smirk, for some reason feeling a little more confident than he usually would. He didn’t miss the narrowing of the squire’s eyes in his direction in response.

‘Everything’s fine Matthews,’ said Armie, ‘Is Sanderson back yet?’

Matthews nodded and jerked his head, ‘Returned a while ago; he’s waiting for you.’

Timothée got down before Armie did, waiting to see what he wanted him to do next.

‘Good,’ said Armie, in response to Matthews as his feet hit the ground, ‘We’ll go and see Sanderson now; see what he has to say.’

And with that he strode off. Assuming that that ‘we’ was meant for him as well, he moved to follow Armie, but found that his way was blocked by Matthews.

‘Don’t get cocky, Frenchman,’ hissed the squire, his face very close to his own. Tim couldn’t help but recoil slightly, as the others breath wasn’t exactly a bouquet, ‘Just because my lord seems to have forgotten who you are, doesn’t mean the rest of us have,’ and with that, he gave him a shove, making him stumble against a tent post to regain his balance.

‘Timothée?’ Armie’s voice drifted back from where he had walked off to, ‘Are you coming?’

He glanced up at Matthews, to see whether the other man was going to let him past, but then decided he wasn’t going to give him the choice. He pushed the bulkier squire aside, ducking under his arm and avoiding any further confrontation with the man. Without glancing back, he strode off after Armie, to see what news Sanderson had returned with.


	16. For The Night Is Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘You’re covered in filth.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Sorry this chapter is late and a bit shorter than normal. It's been a difficult one to write, for some reason it just was like treading through treacle getting my fingers on the keyboard. We've also had a family loss in the past fornight (covid related although not unexpected) _and_ I've started a new job, so it's been a little hectic to say the least... 
> 
> Anyway, enough of that general pity party (I'm absolutely fine by the way, just a little tired!), and I hope you like the chapter! Let me know what you think, your comments are a ray of sunshine on a wintery day. 
> 
> Love 
> 
> V  
> xxx

Armie hardly dared breathe, for fear of being heard, like wind rustling through the long grass in which they were currently hidden, and subsequently discovered. He hadn’t imagined that he’d be spending the small hours of this night, face covered in mud, crouching amongst this year’s fallow grass, yet to be harvested for hay that winter, trying to stay silent. But when Sanderson had arrived back to the army camp and told him what he’d seen when he’d scouted out the Scottish location, the opportunity had been too good to pass up, and he’d immediately formulated a plan to make the most of it.

With him tonight was only Henry and Sanderson, as the fewer people he had with him, the less likely they were to be heard and discovered. Timothée hadn’t been overly happy when he’d told him to stay behind, but that was mostly a practical point; Sanderson only spoke English, and he didn’t want to have to translate everything that was said into French in order for an order to be carried out. As much as he didn’t like it, Timothée did understand this logic, and had set about ensuring the slightly old sword that had been procured for him was in the best shape possible instead. Matthews hadn’t been happy at being left behind either, but Armie had simply ordered him to stand down when he’d begun to protest, and make sure that everything was in order when he returned to the camp.

He looked over at Sanderson through the darkness and lingering drizzle, only the light of a half-covered moon showing them each other’s position.

‘This way?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ Sanderson muttered, his voice hoarse from trying to speak as quietly as possible, ‘Just up ahead.’

He peered into the darkness, trying to see where Sanderson was gesturing. Slowly, as his eyes made sense of the shapes that he could see silhouetted against the general darkness of the night, he turned his plan over in his mind. Sanderson had been right; there were several carts dotted on this side of the camp (they had taken a half a mile diversion around the edge of the camp in order to be in the best possible position); one full of food and a few with things such as bows, pikes, and spare arrows. The carts in front of him were guarded, but only one guard per cart as far as he could see, which seemed utterly negligent he thought. The supply carts at his own camp had at least four guards around each one, with pain of severe punishment or even death hanging over them should they abandon their posts without being relieved by another soldier. He knew discipline was sloppy in the Scottish army, but now it was working utterly in his favour, as it made his idea so much easier. It helped that most of the men were from different clans who distrusted each other at the best of times. The only reason King Malcolm had managed to cobble these men together and get them to forget their petty squabbles was for the promise of bigger fruit; England and Englishmen.

About 100 paces to his right, he had also spotted the small pen of goats that Sanderson had mentioned from his reconnaissance; clearly reived from a nearby farm or field. Now they were to come in extremely useful. He motioned to Henry to come closer, and once he was next to him, he whispered his instructions in his ear, cupping his hand to stop any sound escaping. He’d already told him the outline of the plan before they had left their own camp, but now he simply reiterated it, just to make sure that he knew what he was about to do. Henry nodded his understanding and slipped away into the darkness.

As reported by Sanderson earlier, the Scots had left the pen with the goats mostly unguarded, apart from one yawning sentry posted about ten feet away, trying to stay warm in front of measly campfire that was struggling in the damp mist and drizzle currently enveloping the night. Now, this was very helpful, as Henry was able to slip over one of the low stone walls of the pen; a silent shadow barely discernible in the dark. Armie waited with baited breath to hear the tell-tale bleating of the goats as they were disturbed, but Henry was so quick and stealthy that they apparently didn’t have time to wake from their groggy slumber properly. The next thing, pandemonium reigned, as the pen was opened and all the goats spilled out into the campsite. The sentry looked up as the cacophony broke out, running into the pen to look for the cause of the goats’ escape, but Henry had already slipped back over the wall and into the grass, so the sentry couldn’t see anything the dark through the inclement weather.

Armie smiled broadly despite himself as men rushed around the campsite, trying to round the goats back up before they either escaped or trampled over tent fastenings and other such things, causing further chaos. Of course, he didn’t get to watch for more than a few seconds, as he’d hurried over to one of the carts to carry out the second part of his plan. He took a wrap of dried kindling from beneath his cloak, putting it underneath the contents of the cart to keep it out of the drizzle and therefore trying to assure that it would be more likely to light. Next, as the kindling was safely stored he reached for his tinderbox, but not before taking a quick glance around the side of the cart to see if anyone was concerned by what was going on. As he’d planned, however, the soldiers in the camp were far too preoccupied trying to round up the still errant goats that were running around the camp, generally causing havoc. He ducked back down and quickly struck the flint in the tinderbox, taking a few strikes before a spark caught into the kindling. He leaned down and blew very gently on the tiny flame to make it truly catch. Once it had, he didn’t stick around to see the flames lick amongst the spare quivers of arrows and bows which were piled into the cart. He knew once the flames were spotted, the men would forget the goats, and hurry over to attempt to put them out; hopefully the damage would have been done by then, and not much of the weaponry in the cart would be salvageable. As he slipped back into the darkness, he could still hear the men running about and swearing at the goats, and he couldn’t help but let a smirk slide across his face at the plan well carried out. Once he was a good distance from the camp, he turned to wait for Sanderson and Henry to rejoin him, from where they had been setting fire to their own targets, hopefully just as successfully as he had.

**

‘You’re covered in filth.’

This was the first thing Timothée said to him when he re-entered the tent a handful of hours later, having made the return journey with Sanderson and Henry. They hadn’t lingered on the outskirts of the Scottish camp long enough to see the men there actually notice the fires they had set; but they had seen the small but determined flames beginning to make good work of the three carts that they had targeted, before they had turned and disappeared into the night to go back to their own camp. They hadn’t stopped to clean off in the dark; knowing that once the fires were spotted, the Scots would send out scouting parties to look for the culprits. They made sure to be long gone before they did. Before returning to the tent, Armie had made sure that the guards were on high alert, in case the Scots thought about some form of retaliation, but was glad to see that his orders were largely unnecessary, as the sentries challenged him and the other two on their way back to camp, asking them to identify themselves. Some lords might have been offended by this; that their sentries didn’t know them by sight, but Armie took it to mean that his sentries were doing their job properly, and also, he conceded to himself, he was probably a little difficult to recognise with his face still covered in muck.

‘Yes, I need a wash,’ he said looking at his hands that were caked in now-dry mud. His face felt stiff with the stuff, so he assumed that that was the same. He looked around his tent, hoping to see a jug with water in it; whether it was hot or not didn’t matter (although hot would be preferable), he just wanted to get this stuff off him. He didn’t immediately spot one, so turned back to the tent entrance.

‘Matthews!’ he yelled out for his squire. There was no response, so he yelled out again a moment or two later. Still nothing, and he mentally made a note to upbraid his squire later for not being attendant on his lord. That wouldn’t do at all.

‘I’ll get some,’ said Timothée, quickly leaving the tent before Armie could stop him. He didn’t know where he went, but a handful of minutes later he was back with a bowl of water.

‘It’s not hot,’ he said apologetically, ‘But it is slightly warm; leftover from what cook put in the broth this evening, so it’s been cooling for a while.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Armie, ‘I’m grateful for anything at the moment; I just need to get this stuff off.’

‘Yes, you stink,’ said Timothée bluntly, ‘Are you sure it wasn’t cow shit you rubbed on yourself, rather than mud?’

‘Hey!’ he said, chuckling as he plunged his hands and arms into the water, beginning to wash off the sticky clingy substance, ‘It was dark; it didn’t feel or smell like cow shit when I put it on my face. At least I hope it wasn’t.’

‘Hmmmm,’ said Timothée speculatively, ‘I think you might have noticed if you put dung that close to your nose, so let’s just hope it’s a particularly fetid bit of mud you managed to pick.’

‘Either way,’ he said, rubbing at his face and neck with a cloth, uncaring that it sent the linen black with grime almost immediately, and made the water turn murky brown, ‘It’s good to get clean. Hopefully Sanderson and Henry have found somewhere to wash as well.’

He finished washing and gave a contented sigh, and then got up to tip the filthy water away outside of the tent, adding to the mud that was quickly being churned up as soldiers and heavy boots walked back and forth between the tents, creating well-worn paths within mere hours.

‘That’s better,’ he said, sitting down on the bench, and reaching behind him to undo the buckle on his jerkin. Normally Matthews would do this for him, as it was a little difficult to do himself, but seeing as his squire was nowhere to be found, he’d have to do it himself.

‘Did it work?’ Timothée asked, from the other side of the tent.

‘I think so,’ he said with a shrug, ‘The trick with the goats worked; the camp was in disarray as soon as they got out… so we were able to set the fires without being seen and hang around to make sure that they caught. We didn’t stay to watch them truly burn though, as I imagine soldiers would be looking for culprits within seconds…’

‘Probably,’ said Timothée, ‘Well, it’s good if it worked.’

‘Absolutely,’ he said, ‘An army with two carts of weapons missing and a cart of food is going to be an unhappy bunch indeed. Even if it only slows them down a bit, at least it will be something.’

‘Something is always better than nothing when it comes to this sort of thing.’

He scratched at the back of his neck, suddenly worried about something that had just crossed his mind. He had abandoned his jerkin buckle as he couldn’t reach around himself properly to undo it without pulling at the leather and possibly ripping it; something he really didn’t want to have fix whilst out on the camp. He’d wriggle his way out of it in a minute.

‘What’s wrong?’ Timothée asked, noting the look on his face.

He looked up, frowning, ‘It wasn’t very honourable though, was it?’

Timothée looked at him, his mouth hanging open, ‘Honourable?’ Then he started laughing, clutching his sides as if he couldn’t help himself.

‘Hey!’ he said, a smile breaking out on his face in an unstoppable reaction to Timothée’s disbelieving mirth, ‘I was being serious.’

‘Only you would think about honour at time like this,’ said the Frenchman, ‘Your lands have been invaded – you’re just fighting back. It’s got nothing to do with honour!’

He shrugged a little helplessly; he supposed Tim was right. It’s just he’d always been taught to behave honourably; even when at war. When he thought about it, he’d been taught to behave honourable _especially_ when at war. That’s what the knight’s chivalric code was all about – he supposed that other people just treated it more flexibly than he did. He certainly knew that king thought about it as guidelines, rather than actual rules.

‘Think about it like this perhaps,’ said Timothée, choosing his words carefully, ‘If you didn’t behave _dishonourably_ – as you imagine it – then the Scots army would have more weapons, and be better fed, and that would probably mean that more men out there would die. Now that’s not very honourable at all… is it?’

He knew if he thought about it, what Timothée was saying was completely true. He had done what he needed to do in order to give his men the best chance on the morrow. Not just his men, he supposed, but himself as well. He shrugged, not answering Timothée verbally, before his fingers went back to the buckle.

‘Let me,’ said Timothée, standing up, ‘You’re going to break it if you keep tugging like that.’

Armie stood as well, turning around to give Timothée better access to the two buckles that kept his jerkin in place.

‘Normally Matthews would do this,’ he said, slightly embarrassed, ‘But he’s seemingly disappeared.’

Timothée leaned in, sticking out his tongue in concentration as he fiddled with the buckle, ‘I haven’t seen him since before you left with Sanderson.’

‘He’s probably sulking somewhere,’ he said, conscious of Timothée’s fingers at his waist as he moved to the second buckle. Even through the leather and then his undershirt, he could feel the weight of Timothée’s hands on his body. In that moment he was suddenly reminded of the night before when as he’d finished inside of his _wife_ , an image of brown curls and a masculine figure had appeared in his mind. Much like the figure of the man who currently had his hands at his waist. He gasped despite himself and took an involuntary step away from Timothée. 

‘Sorry, did I hurt you?’ said Timothée, looking perplexed because there was no reason why this should have been the case.

‘No,’ he said jerkily, ‘It’s fine; I can do it now.’

He reached down and tugged, the jerkin coming loose easily now, and he pulled it over his head, chucking it on the floor. He looked over at Timmy perfunctorily, who was still standing a few paces away, looking a little nonplussed.

‘Try get some sleep,’ he said not unkindly, ‘We’ve got to be moving in a handful of hours. By the then the Scots may even want to meet to discuss terms.’

‘You think they might do that?’ Timothée asked, although he looked as though he might want to return to the previous moment of this conversation, and ask why Armie had shied away from him. Armie turned away again; he didn’t want to face that right now.

‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘Depends how much damage we managed to do tonight. Sleep.’

Hearing that as the dismissal it was meant to be, Timothée turned, still looking confused, and went to lay down on his bedroll. Matthews’ bedroll was still empty near the door of the tent. Armie supposed that he probably gone drinking with some of the men, or perhaps had even managed to find himself a woman in a nearby village. That might be a bit of stretch though, as they had only been encamped for a day. Either way, he’d be back by morning.

For his part, Armie lay down on his sleeping couch. It was more comfortable than a bedroll on the floor; but it wasn’t quite long enough for his tall frame, and his feet stuck off the end. He rolled so that he wasn’t looking at the figure of the man on the floor of the tent, instead staring at the dark canvas of the thick tent wall, making sure his sleeping furs were wrapped around him to ward off the cold. He knew he too needed to sleep, but his mind was overrun with the image that had come to him last night; a pale white throat exposed as a head of brown curls was thrown back in ecstasy, the body taut as pleasure ran through his form. He felt his cock throb as he thought about the image, and he willed away feelings of arousal. He was the master of his body, not the thoughts that were running through his mind.

It wasn’t that he was worried that the image was of a man; no – he was used to that, and had indulged plenty of times in that past. He had done enough penance on his knees for this perceived sin that it no longer bothered him that he often thought of men when he sought his own pleasure, hand wrapped around his aching prick in lieu of the tightness he truly desired. No, what bothered him was that this was a man so close to home. At first, he had tried to deny that it was an image of the Frenchman that had come to him, but that was a losing battle. He knew no other with a stature like that; with curls such as those, and with skin that pale and soft. That was a problem. He normally took his pleasure far away from home. For desire to grip him for one who was so close to where he lay his head… well, that was a test indeed. He frowned deeply to himself, wishing that the image of ecstasy personified would leave his mind and allow him to sleep. Instead the image now had a voice; a gasp, a groan, and a muttering of French expletives as the person came undone. Armie growled under his breath, still ignoring the now insistent pulsing in his loins, and determinedly sought around for something else to think about.

Oddly, it was that which should give him the least sleep; the idea of battle on the morrow, which allowed him to focus on something other than that which had plagued him before. He thought in detail about it, about the stitching on his armour, about the metalwork on the hilt of his sword. He thought about how he would direct his men, and how his enemy might respond. He examined each angle, focusing in on that so there was no room in his mind for other, more unwelcome thoughts, to make themselves known once again. He drifted off into an uneasy slumber with the sounds of the clashing of swords and the yells of fighting men ringing in his ears.


	17. Heal Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He knew it was Armie’s hand. He’d felt that large, warming, and seemingly all-encompassing touch several times now, and he thought he would probably know it anywhere._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ask and you shall (eventually) receive...
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter! Let me know your thoughts... it means everything to me as a writer <3 
> 
> Love
> 
> V  
> xxxx

He rolled over onto his side, and almost immediately felt the rush of vomit up the back of his throat as his brain rocked in his skull, even without him opening his eyes to the world around him. He just about managed to lean over the side of what he was lying on (he assumed it was a bed) before he was heartily sick, his eyes watering, and his nose filling with bile.

‘Whoa! Easy…’ he felt a warm hand on his back as he heaved, and even with his eyes still firmly shut, he knew it was Armie’s hand. He’d felt that large, warming, and seemingly all-encompassing touch several times now, and he thought he would probably know it anywhere. He kept his eyes clamped shut as he fell back on the softness of whatever he was lying on; if this was how he felt with his eyes _closed_ , he didn’t want to even venture opening them. Now that he’d been sick, however, he felt very slightly better. But only slightly.

‘Timothée… can you hear me?’

He groaned in response to the question, rather than actually verbalising an answer to Armie’s words, hoping that Armie would take it for the affirmative.

‘I’ll take that for a yes,’ said Armie’s voice, as though from far away, making him smile inwardly (he wasn’t sure he could physically smile at the moment), in that he’d understood what his groan meant.

‘You’re at the residence of the Bishop Burton,’ said Armie’s voice gently, ‘You were hit over the head pretty badly; so I’m going to need you to stay still as much as possible.’

Well _that_ wouldn’t be a problem, thought Timmy’s pounding brain; he didn’t want to move an inch if he could help it, for fear that he would feel the world shifting beneath him.

He groaned again as he realised just how thirsty he was. This was going to be more difficult to communicate to Armie without using actual words, so he opened his mouth in an attempt to speak.

‘Water,’ he managed to whisper; his voice hoarse due to the parched nature of his throat. A few moments later and he felt the edge of a cup against his bottom lip, and the supporting feel of a hand at his back, helping him sit up very slightly in order to take a drink. It was hard to swallow; his throat felt like it was taken up by a lump of clay, but he just about managed a few sips. He felt the world turning again just from the motion of sitting up, and he felt nothing more than the desire to lay back down and return to the blissful unconsciousness of sleep.

‘I’ve got some milk of the poppy here for you, to sleep,’ said Armie, as if reading his thoughts, ‘The Bishop says that’s the best thing for you to heal.’

Timmy didn’t know whether the bishop was right or not, so he had little choice when another cup was placed against his lower lip, Armie’s hand once again steadying him. He coughed as the syrupy liquid made its way over his tongue, causing some of it to spill. He felt it run down his chin, but then a moment later there was a soft cloth, dabbing at what had been spilled. He opened his mouth to say thank you, but all that came out was another slurred groan. The speed at which the medicine, coupled with the pounding in his head, pulled him back to the darkness was astonishing. That thought was the only thing he had time to contemplate before the pain floated blissfully away and he was once again, carried to sleep.

**

_He tied his horse’s reigns around the fencepost, drew his sword from the scabbard and continued on foot, only a short distance from where they were to form up, just over the brow of the next hill._

_They had been woken that morning by the most unpleasant news; a soldier barging into Armie’s tent to wake him, thus waking Timmy as well, babbling something in English that was much too fast for him to even begin to understand. Whatever had been said had immediately set Armie’s face into a frown like a thundercloud. He swung his legs off the couch, immediately yelling for Matthews, who, Timmy noted, had reappeared at some point since last night, and was curled up asleep on his bedroll. He had clearly been drinking the night before, because he hadn’t managed to get the thing wrapped around him properly, and he still had one boot on. The other was haphazardly strewn at the end of his sleeping space. He also smelt like an ale house, and Timmy had wrinkled his nose at the smell of stale beer rolling off the man._

_For his own part, he had busied himself getting his own clothing and light armour on. Clearly something had happened, judging by the way people were striding in and out of the tent, with Armie barking orders at them when they appeared, and he needed to be ready for whatever eventuality. A moment or two later, two soldiers returned carrying a chest between them. When they flung open the lid, his suspicions were confirmed, as Armie’s carefully packed armour, and some for himself and Matthews came into view._

_‘What has happened?’ he dared to ask Armie as they were both strapped into their armour, during a brief moment when other people weren’t demanding the Englishman’s attention_

_‘The Scots have attacked Lanercost,’ said Armie tersely, his mouth a thin line, his expression stony, ‘I didn’t think they would actually be godless enough to attack a monastery, but it seems I have misjudged King Malcolm. Well, God will see justice done this day.’_

_And so, it was that he found himself here, fallen in with one of Armie’s flank leaders. Mostly he was just following the other men, as he couldn’t understand the orders when they were barked in English. Armie hadn’t had time to explain anything further to him, other than that they would split into two groups, to attack the Scots position from the north and the south to unseat them and relieve the priory, hopefully before any major or irreparable damage could be done. Armie had been much too busy making sure the men were formed up and on the move how he wanted them, to pay him much heed. So, much to his chagrin, he had found himself trailing Matthews, for lack of any other direction. He didn’t know whether the squire had noticed him trailing him; if he had, he’d not said anything about it._

_They had ridden as far as they might before dismounting from their horses and continuing on foot. Armie had been right; the army’s ranks had swelled overnight, as men had arrived from the nearby villages and boroughs. Now, between the two companies that Armie had created that morning, there must be well over a thousand men, he estimated. Hopefully plenty to take on the Scots, and drive them back. The men around him were quiet, although one or two attempted conversation with those nearby. He was mostly left to himself, when it became clear he didn’t speak very good English, and he gleaned that hardly any of them spoke any French at all._

_Battle was close; Timmy could smell it on the air – tension in the men who he marched with (a sort of acrid mixture of sweat and fear), and also the underlying smell of burning. The priories out buildings he assumed, where the thatch had been set alight._

_It seemed as if any notions of an early truce had been wishful dreaming, as the idea that someone was able to infiltrate the Scots camp and do damage with no one noticing had clearly sent King Malcolm into a rage. Enough so that he was prepared to attack, equipment shortage or not. Perhaps he was worried that further subterfuge would occur if he left it any longer. As far as Timothée was concerned, he thought this was the height of folly, but then he supposed he shouldn’t complain, as it would surely work in their favour, just as Armie had intended._

_They crossed over the brow of the hill in formation, waiting for further orders, and Timothée could instantly see why Armie had ordered that the battle commence on foot. The first three lines of the Scottish troops were armed with particularly wicked looking pikes, which would do huge damage to any attempted cavalry charge. They were relatively lightly armoured, however, so as the English longbows hurried into their formations in the two blocks, the Scottish commanders ordered the army to step up and engage. They weren’t just going to stand there and allow their troops to be picked off by the bowmen. The ground between the two parties was boggy (another reason for on-foot fighting), but the lightly armoured scots approached at quite apace. They had only minutes before battle was joined._

_The Englishman in charge of this block, a minor knight by the name of Thompson from a town near the keep, ordered the block ready for engagement. Because they were fighting two blocks, the Scots army was forced to split down the middle; something which they hadn’t anticipated, and was causing some chaos in the opposing forces, Timmy noticed with some amusement. Hopefully this fight wouldn’t last too long. It looked as if it were to be a highly-organised force against one that was struggling to keep the lines, something which in his own experience meant that victory was all but assured for the organised side. Of course, that wasn’t always the case, and as the Scots ordered the charge, and several hundred screaming men started sprinting the distance across the open field to engage, he was reminded that this was still a fight, and he readied himself for battle. His mind was clear and focused, and his arm became one with the steel it held. He matched the defensive stance of the other men around him, waiting for oncoming onslaught to hit._

_Battle here was little different from battle in northern France, he mused absurdly as the two sides crashed together. It was still men screaming, fighting, a clash of steel, and the yells of effort and pain, no matter what language those yells were made in. He was pushed back slightly when the natural reaction of several hundred bodies hurling themselves into the front line meant that those men took several steps back, but he soon found his footing and a man to fight, and so it began._

_He’d been right though. It seemed to be over in a matter of minutes. That could just be because time felt completely irrelevant on the battlefield, he mused; perhaps it had in fact been hours. Either way, the light in the sky had barely changed by the time the battle seemed to be slowing, the clash of steel becoming less deafening as it rang in his ears. He managed to look up and around him after he had felled only his second opponent (a man with ginger whiskers he had noted); as he looked about for another foe to engage. It surprised him to see that the remaining Scots (easily identifiable by their tartan kilts (he would have to ask Armie about that)) were already engaged, and that there was no one left for him to fight in his immediate vicinity._

_He took a deep breath to slow his pounding heart, racing with a mixture of excitement, fear, and the exertion of fighting two men much bigger than he was. The first he had felled by shoving his dagger between his ribs when he had raised his great sword, thus exposing his much softer middle. The second he had taken down by thrusting his sword up under his armpit, another soft fleshy part of man, not well guarded and easy to exploit. Despite these relatively simple victories, they had still taken the wind out of him, and his blood was pounding with the effort._

_He was just looking about once again to make sure there were no other foes left when it happened. All he could see around him were men wearing Armie’s colours, or insignia of the Berkeley house, all breathing as heavily as he was. He could see Scots running pell-mell for the hills, but they were all ahead of him, none to be seen when he had glanced around, and surely one of the other men would have seen them as well, if they had been there. He pushed the visor on his helmet up and breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the wind blow across his sweating brow._

_He guessed it was his own folly for not spotting the hidden enemy, wherever he might have come from, despite him looking and being sure that only his allies remained on the field around him. It happened seemingly out of thin air, as he was sure there were no other assailants in his immediate vicinity (he wouldn’t have lowered his weapon or lifted his visor otherwise), there came a heavy blow to his ribs that winded him utterly, causing him to pitch forward onto his knees. This was swiftly followed by a sickening blow to the head that made the ground come up to meet him instantly; the mud and the darkness rising towards his eyes no matter how much he tried to fight it. He must have been out before he hit the ground, as he didn’t remember the impact._

_**_

‘ _Timothée…_ ’

Armie’s voice was calling him back to wakefulness, and he groaned a little grumpily as he was drawn out of the comfort of sleep, despite the less than enjoyable dreams he had just been having. It took him a moment to fully extract himself from the cloying mud into which he had fallen at the end of his dream, as he relived his moment of injury. For a moment, he felt a flash of annoyance towards himself, how had he not seen it coming? He groaned again, this time in annoyance at his own stupidity, rather than the discomfort of wakefulness.

‘I know,’ said Armie, a slight hint of amusement in his voice as he woke up properly, ‘But the healer says I need to apply this to your side, to help with the swelling.’

His headache from this morning had abated considerably, although it was still making itself known by a dull ache in his teeth and a steady throb behind his eyes. He thought he could probably attempt to open them though, as he slowly did so, his vision a little fuzzy as his eyes focused on his surroundings.

‘Hullo,’ said Armie gently, seeing him open his eyes. The bigger man was sat on a seat beside the pallet he was lying on. They were in a small room, barely big enough for the bed and Armie to sit down, but it meant that he had somewhere quiet to sleep. He wondered if there were any other injured men in similar rooms nearby that Armie was also tending to. In a twisted sort of way he hoped he wasn’t the only one who managed to get himself hurt on the battlefield. He didn’t want to seem weaker than he actually was.

‘Hello,’ he managed to croak back, his voice rough from disuse, although it couldn’t have been that long since the battle, surely?

‘How do you feel?’ Armie asked, looking him over critically.

Timothée couldn’t help but frown for a moment, a pervasive thought badgering at his brain.

‘Why are you here?’ he asked the other man after a moment, not answering his previous question.

Armie looked at him surprised, ‘Should I be somewhere else?’

‘I’d have thought you had more important things to do,’ he mumbled self-consciously.

Armie smiled at him gently, ‘I do have important things to do. One of them looking after you. I promised your family that I would see you taken care of, so that’s why I’m here.’

This didn’t quite answer his point, he thought. Surely Armie could designate someone else to look after him, whilst he got on with more important things that occurred after the winning of a –

‘Did we win?’ he asked, realising that even though he assumed victory, he’d never actually had it confirmed.

Armie’s face crinkled into a smile, ‘Well we drove the Scots back across the border, and King Malcolm delivered hostages to me at noontime today, who I then gave over to the prior and the bishop, as continuing assurance of a cessation to hostilities. He also agreed to pay reparations and gave me some gifts…’

‘Sounds like a good arrangement for you,’ Timmy mumbled, his head beginning to hurt again as he thought about it.

‘Well, that’s what happens when your son and heir gets taken in the midst of battle; nothing short of abject surrender will see to his safety, something of utmost importance to Malcolm, so…’ Armie tailed off, a determined grin on his face.

Timmy closed his eyes again, pleased that, despite his apparent injuries, they had managed to win the day. And not just win, he thought, it sounded as if it had been a rout. He pushed aside the images he had in his dreams just before Armie had called him to wakefulness, considering that they probably were just images borne of his aching head and his imagination. Surely those images weren’t actually real. There must have been an enemy he’d missed when he was surveying the area, and that was how he’d been struck.

At the end of the day, they had won, and that was what mattered.

‘Your head looks like it’s going to heal nicely,’ said Armie, gently moving aside the curls on his forehead to look at what he assumed was the wound or swelling there, ‘The healer put a mixture of beeswax and honey on the cut when you were brought in, to stop it from becoming inflamed. So far it seems to have worked.’

‘Maman used to do that when we cut ourselves back at home,’ he murmured slightly sleepily, ‘If the cut warranted it, of course.’

‘Ah, tried and tested then,’ said Armie, and Timothée could hear the smile in his voice, causing him to softly smile back.

‘Stay awake Timmy,’ said Armie gently, noticing him drifting slightly, ‘The healer said you should for a while.’

‘I’ll try,’ he mumbled, and attempted to reopen his eyes, settling for having them only partially open, and half-focused on the cover in front of him. Next, Timmy could hear him unscrewing the lid off some jar or other, and a pungent smell of mint and possibly rosemary overtook his senses, causing him to cough.

‘Wow,’ he couldn’t help but exclaim, as the sharp smell made its way up his nose, doing nothing for his fast returning headache.

‘I know,’ said Armie, ‘It is quite pungent, isn’t it? But it’s supposed to be very good for the swelling and bruising, so…’

Timothée murmured his assent to this and then hissed as Armie’s hands brushed his side, moving the coverlet and unbuttoning his nightshirt so he could see where he was to apply the ointment.

He let his eyes open properly once again then, and looked down at the other man, who was busy concentrating on what he was doing. He had noticed that Armie sometimes had a tendency to stick his tongue between his teeth when he was focused on something, and now was no different as his fingers moved dexterously from the pot to his side, which was a wonderful black and blue colour, from where he had been hit. The entire area, from his armpit to his hip, was a mottled canvas of bruising, with one long stripe of darker colour running just under the last rib. It almost looked like he’d been hit with the flat of a sword, or perhaps with a club, or a similar blunt weapon.

As Armie gently applied the salve, Timmy let his eyes trace the contour of the other man’s strong jaw, and to the body wrapped against the chill of the room, but obviously no longer wearing his armour. He was a beautiful man, Timothée thought absently, strong and well made. God must have been feeling particularly artisanal the day he made him, he thought. His mind focused on the feel of Armie’s fingers on his side, the way his skin felt against his own as he very gently massaged it into his flesh, and the way those blue eyes were looking at his body so intently, to make sure he did his job well. He wondered what Armie thought about his body; did he think him weak, or did he see something else, despite the bruising and the slenderness of his form?

It was a few moments later when he realised his mistake.

He let out an involuntary gasp of horror as he felt that his body was stirring to Armie’s touch; his cock getting entirely the wrong message about what was occurring and taking interest, despite the soreness of the rest of his form. He flushed from top to toe, and wriggled in discomfort, wanting nothing more than to be able to bolt from the bed and flee from the scene, and yet being completely unable to. Armie’s eyes flicked up to his to see if he was causing him pain, before running over his body, those blues widening in surprise as he took in what was happening. Timmy let out a whine of embarrassment and tried to roll onto his side, away from the other man, but Armie’s hand on his hip stopped him, making him lie still.

He knew his face must be suffused red with embarrassment as Armie looked back at him; blue eyes looking into his own green gaze, but he knew couldn’t help the reactions of his body. Armie’s hands rubbing salve into the bruising on his side had stoked his already growing desire for the man, and now it was plain for both of them to see. He desperately wished at that moment that the ground might open and swallow him whole.

‘I-I’m so sorry,’ he stuttered out, sure that Armie was about to strike him, or yell that he was a catamite, impure, and needed to be cleansed by some hard penance, ‘I can’t help i-it.’

Armie looked at him, surprise writ large on his face at what was happening, and Timmy waited with baited breath for the blow to come, or for the other man to lash out. What surprised him utterly was that Armie’s face relaxed into a sort of amazed contentment.

‘Armie, I -,’ he started, trying to explain again, but then his words were cut off with a gasp as Armie’s hand slid from his side down to rest on his hip, just underneath the coverlet. His cock twitched in desire, and he knew that his nightshirt would be clinging with wetness to the tip of his prick. What was he doing? Surely, he couldn’t want -?

‘Can I…’ Armie breathed, and Timothée wondered if he was still in some kind of delirium dream. Surely this couldn’t be real? He let out a little involuntary moan, and apparently that was all the permission Armie needed to gently pull his nightshirt up to his waist and wrap his hand around his cock.

His breath came out all at once in disbelief that this was actually happening. At the same time, it seemed, all the muscles in his body tensed and he arched his back, immediately chasing the sensation, despite the fact that this made his side ache fiercely. At the moment it didn’t matter; all that mattered was Armie’s hand wrapped around his now freely leaking prick.

‘Armie, you -,’ he started as the other man stroked him, causing him to moan through his teeth.

‘It’s alright,’ Armie breathed, his eyes alight with wonder, as if he couldn’t believe that he was actually allowed to do this. That made two of them, thought Timothée ruefully, as he decided to just let himself go to the sensations, and deal with the outcomes of this fever dream later. Armie’s hand was warm, it’s path eased by the slick weeping freely from his cock. Timmy couldn’t help but thrust his hips a little into the other man’s grip, chasing the feeling of tingles and joy that was building up behind his naval. It felt so good, a beautiful delight building up throughout his body as Armie stroked him, giving him pleasure that made his brain seemingly vacate his head, so he was completely unable to think about any consequences of this, unable to think about anything other than that this beautiful man was stroking his cock.

‘Mmmm Armie,’ he moaned, as the man ran his thumb under the head of his prick, teasing that point of pleasure that he so often rubbed when he was seeking his own release. The noise Armie let out in response to his apparent satisfaction was nothing short of what Timmy might call a purr, like a stable cat would make. Except it was much deeper than that, it was more like a rumble, from within the man’s chest. That sound alone made him hurtle towards the edge of his release, biting his lip, his belly tense with the oncoming sensation. He wanted nothing more than to have Armie make that sound again; perhaps when he would be allowed to return this favour? The thought of being allowed to get his hands on this beautiful man pushed him right to the edge of his own completion-,

‘Yes, Armie, please, I -,’

And then to his immense surprise, as he sensed his impending release, Armie leaned down and took the head of his cock in his mouth, his plump lips sucked over the tip of his prick. The reaction was immediate; Timmy’s hips shot up seeking that warm, wet, exquisiteness; he moaned loudly, and he was lost as his release washed over him, like a wave crashing onto the shore of a beach on a stormy day, powerful and all-encompassing. He barely noticed that Armie had swallowed everything he had given, but some modicum of his brain sparked in interested delight at this piece of information as he came down from his high, and his breathing steadied a little.

His eyes never left Armie’s as they considered each for a moment, wondering who was going to break the beautiful silence first.

‘It’s alright,’ Armie murmured after a moment, making Timmy nod instantly in response. He hoped his eyes conveyed everything he wasn’t sure he was able to say at that moment – the openness, the joy, and the trust he felt, for the man still sitting by the side of his bed. Armie reached for his nightshirt, righting it once again, and pulling the blanket back over him to protect him from the chill. Timothée wanted nothing more than to embrace him right then, the thankfulness and closeness he felt for the other man wanting him to cling to him. But he could barely move to sit up; let alone wrap his arms around the larger man.

‘Yes,’ Timmy said finally, in lieu of being able to do anything else and hoping that the warmth in his voice would convey some of what he was feeling in that moment, ‘Yes, it’s alright.’

Armie’s smile was immediate and all encompassing, his face lighting up with a warm joy as he looked at him. Timmy tried to keep his eyes open, despite the sleepy feeling fast approaching him; the milk of the poppy he’d had earlier must still be affecting him, even though his headache had much abated. He wondered whether Armie wanted him to stay awake a bit more, like he had instructed earlier. He would try if he wanted to him, but he wasn’t sure how long he would be able to fight the impending feeling of unconsciousness.

‘We’ll talk later Timothée, about…’ breathed Armie gently, his hand gesturing as it was unnecessary to finish that sentence, ‘Go to sleep. I’ll still be here when you wake.’

Timmy nodded again, vaguely wondering if that’s all he was capable of doing, before his eyes slipped closed. He was equally surprised and gratified when, a moment later, he felt Armie’s lips gently press against his temple, leaving the softest of kisses against the skin there. A flood of warmth suffused his body at the touch, and he felt himself slowly let go into the deepness of dreams.


	18. In The Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He too, could be happy here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Merry belated Christmas, Happy belated Birthday Timothee, and early Happy New Year! Is that everything? 
> 
> Sorry this so late, I've been having a bit of a rough time lately... trying to lower SSRIs after being on them for years _sucks dick_ (and not in a good way). I've also been applying for law traineeships, so that's been taking up time and... *insert another excuse here*. Anyway, thank you to LostCol and JoliePrudence for being my own personal cheerleading squad. You guys genuinely make me smile so much with your enthusiasm for this story... so yeah. And thank you to everyone who comments and reads. Sorry I have got round to replying to the comments on the last chapter because... see above excuses. I will try to do so soon! Just know your comments mean the world to me, and I love to know what you think. 
> 
> Please comment, like, subscribe, whatever. It means everything to hear your thoughts. 
> 
> I hope 2021 brings you everything you desire and is so so much better than this dumpster fire we're leaving behind. Also, if you haven't, check this out (The 2020 song: very NSFW, and not-safe-for-families either, but it's also hilarious): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=czxy78QsL-w
> 
> Love  
> V
> 
> xxxx

He spent the next three days recuperating in the Bishop’s Palace; a two storey structure made of wood and stone, surrounding an inner courtyard where vegetables and fruits grew. The first day, he simply drifted in and out of consciousness, any pain in his head and body suppressed by the milk of the poppy. By the third, he was restless, wanting to be up and about. He felt much better physically than he had when he had first woken up, but mentally he was a little fractious, and the hours spent alone ruminating weren’t doing anything to help with that. Despite Armie’s promise that he would be there when he woke up, he’d not seen the man for over two days. At first this had sent him into a complete panic; did Armie totally regret what had happened between them, and would now refuse to see him? This falling feeling was only assuaged when a harassed looking messenger found him in the garden and handed him a note, apologising that he had meant to give it to him first thing that morning, as he had been told, but that he’d been otherwise occupied. Timothée hadn’t cared too much, just thanked the man and ripped the cord from the note to unroll it, the familiar looped hand coming into view, immediately stifling some of his feelings of panic.

_Timothée,_

_I have been asked away to Lanercost to discuss a matter of utmost importance with the Prior, but I will return shortly. Remain at the palace and continue to heal. I will be back as soon as I am able._

_Armie._

_P.S – Go and ask the stable master for the thing I told him about. I think you will be pleased._

His curiosity sufficiently piqued, Timothée slid off the stone bench upon which he had been sat in the weak sunshine and made his way relatively slowly towards the stables. He had to do it slowly because he still had waves of dizziness overcome him at inopportune moments, especially if he was trying to walk too fast. He desperately wished he could remember who had hit him over the head for a number of reasons; if it had been an enemy then he needed to learn a lesson about being more aware of his surroundings, because next time he might not be lucky enough to survive such an encounter; if it had been a supposed “friend,” then that was much more worrying… Unfortunately, he was drawing nothing more than blackness on that particular memory, no matter how much he groped around his mind searching for some inkling as to what happened. He could remember looking around, and then his next conscious thought was waking up with Armie beside him. He didn’t even have any memory of how he got from the field to the Bishop’s Palace. Assumedly someone must of carried him, but he had no idea who.

As he walked he wondered what business Armie had to undertake with the Prior. The man was obviously shaken by the encounter with the Scots, and many of the priory’s outbuildings had been damaged in the raid, with one or two of the monks injured. None of the monks had been killed, gladly. It seemed that even the Scots had stopped short at actually killing a man of God in his own house. The Prior probably wanted to speak with Armie about continued military protection and additional funds to rebuild, he mused… that was most likely. Although most of the funds would be coming from the soundly defeated Scots, the men would have to come from Armie’s retinues, as Warden of the West Marches.

He called out as he approached the stable, and a young looking stable boy appeared from within after a moment or two.

‘Yeah?’ he said, wiping his dirty hands on his breeches. Timothée wasn’t sure how this would help, as the breeches were just as a dirty as the rest of him.

‘Er,’ said Timothée, tripping over his English words, ‘Ar-er-Lord Berkeley said I should come here.’

The boy looked confused as he tried to decipher his words through the thick accent Timmy knew he had whenever he spoke English. After a second or two he shrugged, appeared to give up, jerked his thumb over his shoulder and said something about ‘Alf.’ Timothée had no idea what or who an “Alf” might be, but when a man well into his winter years, but with a sharpness in his eyes that belied his age appeared, Timothée surmised that “Alf” must be the stablemaster, or certainly someone who knew what was going on around here.

‘Can I help ye?’ Alf said.

This man’s accent was nearly unintelligible. Timothée had heard some of the Scots hostages talking the day before, and this man sounded something like them, but also with the odd English lilt that the middling residents of Carlisle city also spoke with. He had no idea what the man had just said to him.

‘Um, Lord Berkeley,’ he said (that should be easily enough to understand), and then gestured to himself, before pointing to the man and then his eye, hoping the man would gather that he was trying to say that Armie had asked him to come and see him. The man might have frowned at his gesturing, but that could also have been the permanent expression on his face; Timothée wasn’t sure. A moment later he gestured for him to follow, and disappeared back into the stable.

A moment later, when Alf pointed into one of the stalls, Timothée couldn’t help but let out a gasp of delight. Lying in the clean straw were four beautiful puppies, wriggling over each other and batting at each other with paws the size of horseshoes. He wasn’t sure what breed they were, but they had thick fur in black, white and tan patches, lop ears and quite short tails. He immediately bent down to stroke and play with them, before he remembered himself and threw a cursory glance at the man standing just behind him. Alf’s expression hadn’t changed, but he’d made no move to stop him from playing with the dogs, so he assumed he was allowed to do so. Two of the puppies were very excitable, and immediately bounded towards him, whilst the other two were a little more cautious in their approach, wanting to be sure it was safe before they came over. Timothée laughed as one squirmy bundle climbed into his lap and tried to chew on his hair (which he now realised, more than ever, needed a cut).

‘For me?’ he asked Alf after a moment, holding the boldest puppy away from him slightly to stop him incessantly licking his ear. He gestured with his free hand to the puppies and then at himself. Alf nodded and held up one finger, as if to say “only one.” That was what Timothée had intended of course, but he nodded in understanding, immediately scooping up the puppy who was currently trying to climb over his arm to resume his licking/chewing on his hair routine. This was clearly the one that was most drawn to him, and therefore the one that he would have.

He looked at Alf, wanting to ask something, but unsure how to put such a question in gestures.

‘How old?’ he tried, wondering if the man understood any French, as he didn’t yet know the word for age in English. Alf shook his head blankly.

Timothée frowned, and the pointed at the puppies before making a gesture of carrying a baby, then the size of a toddler, then a child, and then shrugging, hoping this got the nature of him asking the question over. The stablemaster nodded and made the gesture of a baby in response. So these really were babies. Timothée thought they might be by their boisterous and wriggly nature, but he wanted to ask anyway. Then Alf made another movement, the sign of a tall person, pointed to the puppies and made a big gesture with hands, suggesting they might grow to be very large indeed.

‘Big?’ Timothée tried, hoping this was the right word.

‘Big,’ Alf confirmed, although the same word repeated back to him sounded nothing like it had when he first said it.

He glanced at the size of the paws of the dog (it was a dog, not a bitch he affirmed after a quick check) he was currently carrying, and his previous assessment of them being the size of horseshoes was close to correct. This puppy was going to grow up to be big, and it would grow fast.

He nodded at Alf, and gave a short bow, before carrying the puppy out of the stable and back towards the garden where he had been previously sat. It whined a little as he took it from its brothers and sisters (Timothée could sympathise how it felt), but he suspected that the dogs were part of the gift that Armie had received from King Malcolm, hence the reason he had ended up with one, and therefore they would all be coming back to the keep. The little guy currently wriggling in his arms would see his siblings again very soon. He wondered who the other puppies were intended for, if Armie was going to keep them for himself to train. He vaguely remembered that the keep did have a master of the hounds, so perhaps he’d hand them over to him for training and ongoing care.

He was beginning to teach his puppy to lie down on his belly, with a few morsels that he saved from his midday meal, when a pair of boots appeared in his eyeline. He looked up to see Armie’s grinning face silhouetted against the sky.

‘I see you found them then?’

‘Oh! You’re back quicker than I thought,’ exclaimed Timmy, scrambling to his feet and then immediately regretting it as the world swam before his eyes. He steadied himself after a moment, and looked down at the puppy, who was whining that he had taken the bit of pie crust with him when he stood up. He quickly tossed it to him with a grin, and it was gone in less than a half a second.

‘Yes, it didn’t take long, the Prior just had a few requests of me,’ said Armie, ‘Nothing that wasn’t easily sorted out.’

‘Oh good,’ said Timothée, and then looked awkwardly at the ground, where the puppy was now chewing happily at his shoes.

‘Are you feeling better today?’ asked Armie, ‘You must be a bit. It’s the first time I’ve seen you outside since they brought you here?’

‘I still feel dizzy from time to time,’ said Timothée with a shrug, ‘But that’s to be expected I guess.’

A second later and he shivered, as chill wind blew across the courtyard, making the remaining October flowers bend in in front of the gust.

Armie nodded in agreement of his body’s sentiment, even though he was firmly wrapped in his riding cloak, ‘Let’s go inside and get warm. You can bring him. What did you call him, or have you not decided yet?’

Timmy leaned down to pick up the puppy, who immediately licked his ear, making him giggle, ‘Um, I was thinking about Henri.’

‘Henri… that’s a good name,’ said Armie as they walked back inside, sheltered from the breeze, ‘Any particular reason?’

Timothée looked firmly into the puppy’s face as he responded, because he thought that if he looked up at Armie he might be start crying, ‘It was my father’s name.’

‘It’s a good name,’ Armie repeated, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t help but lean into the weight of it slightly.

‘Thank you for him,’ said Timmy, snuggling his face into the puppy’s fur, ‘He’s beautiful. Are you going to take the rest of them as well?’

‘Yes,’ said Armie as they went back into Timmy’s room where he had been rehabilitating, ‘I’ll train one, and then give one to Lady Alice, and one to Annie as well.’

‘They’ll love that; then when Annie leaves – eventually – she’ll have a friend from home to take with her.’

‘I hadn’t thought about it like that,’ mused Armie, moving over to the fireplace to warm his hands (the rain from a few days ago may have cleared, but with the brightness had come a bitter cold, and Armie had been riding most of the day), ‘But I guess that she will.’

A moment later Armie turned around to look at him, also warming his back and thighs in the process. Timothée waited, sitting on the edge of the bed, for what he wanted to say. It was clear that they had come in here in order to talk about the other day, and for once his tongue had run dry in his mouth. He was glad that Armie had decided he was going to lead this conversation before it had even begun, as he wasn’t sure where he would have started.

Armie glanced at the door, making sure it was fully closed before he opened his mouth to speak, ‘I like women and men,’ he said this bluntly, his tone confident, giving no room for interpretation, ‘Although in the past it has been that I have found more men attractive than women.’

Timothée nodded, unsure of what to say, of what Armie wanted him to say in response to this statement. He knew that he was attracted to Armie; to his mind as well as to his body, surely his actions the other day affirmed that?

‘And you?’ Armie asked him after a moment. For a second, Timothée thought he saw something akin to a flash of doubt in Armie’s eyes, as if he were wondering whether what had happened the other day was merely a figment of his imagination. Armie wanted to hear him say it out loud. That was alright; he could do that. He’d said it to his sister once before; and when she hadn’t run screaming for the priest… well, that was another reason why they were so close. Or had been, at least.

‘I like boys… well, men,’ Timothée hurried to say, to stop Armie from worrying if for nothing else, ‘Mostly. I have lain with a few women in the past but…’

The corner of Armie’s mouth turned up in a smile at his hesitation, ‘Not to your taste?’

He blushed despite himself and shrugged, ‘Not really. It was alright.’

Armie straightened up and looked at him hard for a moment, ‘I had no intention whatsoever of this happening when I brought you here; and I didn’t even really know it _was_ happening until recently. I don’t know why it has, perhaps it has been sent by God to test me… if so, I can already see I am destined to fail.’

Now it was Timothée’s turn to smile slightly, ‘Or perhaps; despite what is sometimes preached from the pulpit, God actually wants what makes his creations whole and healthy, and therefore for provides them with opportunities for happiness.’

‘Or temptation,’ muttered Armie, looking across at him.

Timothée shrugged, ‘Whichever way you put it. I do not think that God intended for us to be miserable.’

He watched as Armie surveyed him for a moment, mulling those words over and his eyes raking up and down his form, before in a stride or two he crossed the room, and pulled him to standing. His head swam for a moment at the sudden change in levels; his balance not quite used to such quickness yet. He didn’t have any time to recover, however, as a moment later, Armie kissed him. This was the first time he had been kissed by the man, and he was a thorough kisser; not leaving a moment for his mind or his breath to catch up with the feeling of lip upon lip. He couldn’t help but grip Armie’s upper arms, just to try and have something solid and stable to cling onto. He knew, however, even in his moment of dizziness, Armie wouldn’t let him fall. The strong arm around his back, and the other on his hip ensured that. Timothée let himself curve into the kiss, trying to close as much space between himself and the taller man as possible; he was drawn like a moth to the flame to Armie’s warmth, his size, his surety. Perhaps, like the moth and the flame, this would also be the death of him, but for now he couldn’t bring himself to care. All he cared was the feeling of Armie’s hands on his body, and the feeling of his mouth claiming his own. He, like Armie, didn’t know when exactly this had happened. When it had become apparent. All he knew was that it _was_. And who was he to defy what was as clear as the light of day?

A moment later, Armie stepped back, his own chest rising and falling with the exertion of the kiss.

‘I think you’re right,’ he said, looking down at him fondly.

‘Huh?’ said Timothée, rather stupidly, sinking back to sitting on the bedspread with a foggy brain now that Armie had let go of him.

‘I think you’re right,’ Armie repeated, ‘What you said a moment ago. I do not think God intended us to be miserable. Therefore… I choose to be happy.’

He couldn’t help but let a broad smile cross his face then. Not many people would have the courage to do such a thing, but from what he had learned of Armie, he was one of the few men who he would have thought could do. The man had courage in spades. He was glad that Armie had chosen this; it made his own choice to get carried along on the flow of the river that much easier. He too, could be happy here. Whether he felt guilty about that, of course, well that was an entirely different matter altogether.


	19. Dream A Little Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Not yet dawn, he thought to himself, and then growled softly under his breath._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the world is shit, and full of horrors. 
> 
> But in fanfiction we can get a little bit of escapism, yeah? 
> 
> Stay safe, read lots, denounce fascists, look at pictures of cute dogs... <3
> 
> Love  
> V  
> xxx

They returned to the keep the following day, riding swiftly on their recuperated horses, covering the distance in less than half a day. It wasn’t raining this time, and Armie gave Helios his head on the more open terrain, allowing the horse to gallop. The others could catch up with him as they willed. He wanted to get back; he knew that he had things to attend to, and despite the appeal of spending a long time relaxing at the Bishop’s Palace, the things back at home would only gnaw at his conscience if he left them. He could leave the injured soldiers that remained in the capable care of the bishop and the staff at his adjoining hospital.

Moments after his conservation with Timothée the previous day, there had been a bang on the door and Matthews had flown in like a gale, asking him away to look at something important. He hadn’t had another moment alone with the Frenchman since then; despite trying to engineer it. At least he had the memory of the kiss they had shared seared onto his brain; a physical manifestation that Timothée shared his attraction, even if they weren’t entirely sure what feelings yet accompanied that. Well, he was pretty sure what his feelings were; he admired the man, thought him attractive, was drawn to his warmth and his intelligence, and his apparent kindness. Whether Timothée felt the same, or whether he saw this as the path of least resistance… well, he hoped that wasn’t the case, anyway. He found himself idly touching his lips, as if doing so would bring Timothée’s mouth back upon his. If only.

Upon returning he was immediately swept up into business that had been waiting for him to return. Even though they had only been gone for about a week, there was a pile of papers and petitions that required his attention, along with various people wanting to see him. He was out and about in the town all day with Jennings, seeing to this and that (predominately in City Hall and the Alderman’s building) before retreating to the castle for some late supper. Timothée wasn’t in the hall when he ate, and he assumed that he had already eaten and retired to his room. Armie knew that his head was (quite reasonably) still troubling him, so it wouldn’t have surprised him if he had gone to sleep, or at least to rest.

He once again wondered how Timothée had managed to be wounded. None of his other men had been wounded in such a way, and a such a place on the battlefield. He hadn’t been near him at the time, leading the other flank against the core of King Malcolm’s forces, so he hadn’t seen what had happened. Of course, there had been others wounded, and a few fatalities, but not in and around where the Frenchman had been. If he let his mind think on it long enough, he would imagine some kind of sabotage, but surely that wouldn’t be possible. If it were, then it presented him with a much greater problem than he had initially anticipated. Until he had any evidence to the contrary, he decided to put thoughts like that to rest.

After a conversation with his new lady wife, in which he established that he would not be visiting her rooms that night, he retired to his own rooms. His page helped him remove his outerwear and then dress in his nightshirt before he slid into bed, the warming pan instantly enjoyed when he slipped between the sheets. He knew he would have to visit Alice at some point this week, and would need to discuss that with her, much as one might discuss a business transaction. He wondered whether she had hoped for a more intimate arrangement between them, and instantly felt guilty that he had no intention whatsoever of that being the case. Sure, he cared for her, but in the way that he cared for everyone as a human being, and also the fact that she was wife. He had a duty before God and to his family to take care of her. He didn’t love her. He hoped that Alice didn’t fancy herself in love with him either; because that could become uncomfortable. He would have to gently ascertain whether this was the case, if only for his own peace of mind. He thought that he might come to sort of agreement with her, as to how often he would go to her rooms and how often he would stay with her. She might even be pregnant already, from their wedding night alone. He knew that such things were unlikely, but it was possible. They wouldn’t know for sure for a least a couple of months. He knew that some ladies had their courses as regular as clockwork, but others did not. He’d have one of his servants discreetly ask Alice’s ladies maids to ascertain this information about his new wife. He certainly couldn’t ask her himself.

He knew he had a long day ahead of him tomorrow; he had to answer many of the papers that were stacked on his desk. Naturally he would have Timothée’s help with this, and would dictate some of the letters to him, in order to save his own hand, and his sanity. He had instructed Jennings to organise for his petitioners from the city to attend the keep in the midweek. That would be much easier than answering each of them individually. It wouldn’t do for those further afield, but it would take care of a large chunk of business. With the fire burning low in the hearth, but still throwing enough warmth out into the cold room, Armie rolled over and tried to empty his mind of business and let sleep take him in her arms.

**

He woke up in near total darkness, only the light of the night candle and the glowing coals in the hearth shedding any light at all. Not yet dawn, he thought to himself, and the growled softly under his breath. He had been having a wonderful dream; it had involved dark brunette curls, and a face with chiselled cheekbones, mouth in a sinful ‘O’ of ecstasy. Why had he woken up just when it had been getting really good?

His prick throbbed under the counterpane, making itself known to his now awake mind. He guessed that was probably why he had awoken. Part of him was tempted to slide his hand under the cover and take care of it himself, but then the other part of mind had a much better idea. Timothée was only just down the hallway.

 _No._ He thought to himself. That was a stupid idea; what if he got caught, in the middle of the night, entering or leaving Timothée’s chambers? He would hardly have much of an excuse. _But who would see him_? The more rebellious part of his mind came up with the counter, and he turned it over in his mind. There would be nobody about on the upper floors of the castle; the nearest guard was posted at the bottom of the spiral staircase that lead to the private rooms above. Everyone else would be asleep.

Before he knew what he was doing he had swung his legs out of bed and his feet into the soft slippers beside it. There was one thing to be said for living in a building where the floors were predominately of stone; there were no creaking wooden floorboards to worry about when moving around trying to stay quiet. He found his sleep robe and threw it around his shoulders, unable to stifle a chuckle as his registered the slightly obscene way that his cockstand was making his nightshirt tent at the front. He slipped out of his room silently and into the darkness of the corridor. Only a few candle sconces remained lit but his eyes were used to seeing in this level of light and it didn’t take him long to silently move to Timothée’s door.

He paused for a moment longer with his hand on the latch. Was he being foolish? For a second he felt like a lovesick teenager; sneaking to see some fancy or other in the middle of the night, hoping that his parents or his servants wouldn’t become aware that he was away from his chambers. He shook his head; he was the lord of the castle now, and nobody could tell him what to do or where he should be. He turned the handle, and slid inside the door, as noiselessly as he could. Once inside, he closed it quietly and he slid the bolt across the door, so no-one might follow him without him knowing about it.

‘Who’s there?’ Timothée’s voice came clearly from the direction of the bed, louder than Armie would have liked and he cringed a little at the noise.

‘It’s just me,’ he hissed quickly, moving into the very dim light that the fireplace was still creating.

‘Jesus Armie, you scared me,’ said Timothée. He heard a clatter as Tim put something heavy back down on his bedside table. He could barely see the slighter man, just a silhouette and the smallest reflection of the fire in his eyes. Other than that, he was in darkness. This was rectified a moment later when Timothée used the night candle burning low on his stand to light three in the candelabra, creating a brighter light.

‘You have a knife on your bed stand?’ Armie asked, distracted momentarily from why he was here.

Timothée looked at it quickly, ‘Oh yeah, habit I guess.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Armie, not wanting to think about that right now. He kept a knife next to his bed when he was out on campaign, but not when he was at home. He trusted the guards to do their job, or at least to raise the alarm to alert him if something was wrong.

‘Why are you in here?’ Timothée asked, his voice softer now.

‘Oh, I, errrr…’ he said, rubbing at the back of his neck, feeling slightly foolish now that he was stood here, in near dark, in the middle of the night.

‘Armie…’ Timothée moved then, sliding out of bed, wincing as his socked feet hit the cold stone floor. A moment later and he was stood in front of him, hands gently sliding down his arms to hands, as if to comfort him.

‘I was dreaming,’ he said quietly, ‘About you.’

‘About me?’ Timothée whispered, his mouth close enough that Armie could feel the words upon his own lips.

He nodded in response, seemingly robbed of his own voice. Timothée’s tongue darted out then, and licked at his lower lip, causing him to gasp slightly in surprise. He seemed frozen to the spot, characteristically unlike him, as Timothée’s hands drifted across to where his nightshirt was still slightly bulged at the front. His erection had mostly gone down, but he was still slightly hard, and his prick stirred as Timothée stroked more firmly through his robe. A second later and he couldn’t help himself any longer, kissing the man in front of him with abandon, pulling him tight against his body and letting his hands freely roam.

‘Armie,’ Timothée gasped, the second his mouth was free, ‘What were you dreaming about?’

Armie’s mouth fell down to his neck, tasting the pale perfect skin between his jaw and the neckline of his nightshirt.

‘What were you dreaming about?’ Timothée asked again, his hands catching his jaw and bringing him back up to look into his eyes.

His hand came up and traced Timothée’s lower lip. The other man playfully bit the end of his thumb whilst waiting for him to answer.

‘I was dreaming about your mouth,’ he said, his voice a deep rumble from within his chest, ‘The way I’ve seen it open in pleasure…’

‘Hmmm,’ Timothée said, before turning them around and gently pushing him back towards the bed, still swathed in darkness, ‘There’s other things this mouth can do you know.’

Armie gasped as he landed on the counterpane and watched as Timothée stood over him, before he reached for the buttons on the top of his nightshirt, his nimble fingers quickly undoing the buttons.

‘Take it off,’ he said, his voice husky with desire. He had to stand up slightly to slide the nightshirt out from underneath his body, and pulled it over his head, dumping it on the floor beside the bed. Timothée stepped back then, looking at him, his eyes scanning across his torso, and further down to where his cock was stood to attention once again, thoroughly interested in the proceedings.

‘Armie, you’re so beautiful,’ said Timothée, his voice soft as his fingers traced over skin and muscles, so light that it almost tickled. He couldn’t help but blush, even though he knew Timothée couldn’t see it in the darkness. Nobody had ever called him beautiful, and he would hardly think it was the best adjective to describe his musclebound bulky body.

‘Not as beautiful as you,’ he mumbled. Timothée leaned forward and kissed him them, his hands on his knees, holding him in place. The next second he’d shifted the discarded nightshirt with his foot, so that when he sunk to his knees a few moments later, it wasn’t onto the cold floor.

Armie couldn’t help but moan at the clear intentions of the other man as he put his hands on the inside of his thighs, sliding up the soft skin and moving them apart slightly to give himself more space. He moaned instantly when Timothée began to make love to his prick with his mouth. He reflexively reached down and curled his fingers into the mop of dark brown hair, dropping back onto the other elbow as pleasure curled through his body, warm licks of heat that matched the patterns that Timothée’s tongue was creating.

‘Jesus,’ he moaned as the other man bobbed his head, a warm, wet, slickness enveloping his cock time and again. He felt Timothée chuckle and then begin to hum, at which point he nearly lost it entirely, falling back entirely and his hand covering his face as he fought to stay in control of his body for a few more moments, the pleasure curling tighter and tighter in his groin.

‘Fuck, Timothée…’ he moaned, ‘I’m gonna cum… Uh…’

He felt the familiar feeling in his stomach that came with his release, and the hand that was still wrapped in Timothée’s hair tightened his grip. Rather than cause the other man to pull back, all he did was redouble his efforts, making Armie forgot how to think, and nearly forget how to breathe.

‘Uh, Jesus…’ he moaned as his entire body stiffened and went taut, his hips thrusting up almost of their own accord as he found his release, pulsing desire. He barely noticed that Timothée didn’t pull back from his out of control hips, but simply sucked him through it, causing residual ripples of pleasure to course through his form, making him nearly shake with it.

It took him several moments to come back to himself, for his body to once again commune with his brain, by which point Timothée had crawled onto the bed beside him, and was leaning up on one elbow, grinning down at him like a cat that had been given cream by the cook.

‘Wow,’ Armie huffed a moment later, unable to stop a chuckle escaping his lips as he surveyed the other man.

‘Thank you,’ said Timothée with an answering chuckle, before swooping in for another kiss. Armie felt like he could taste a bit of himself in the other man’s mouth, but he didn’t mind a bit as he hungrily responded, pushing the Frenchman over onto his back, laying full length along the warm body of the other man, hip to hip, and yet his was still hidden by his nightshirt.

‘Off, off, off,’ he mumbled, whilst kissing the collarbones of the man underneath. Timothée giggled but had to shove him back very slightly in order to be able to actually remove his nightshirt. He groaned as he looked at the Frenchman finally laid like an exquisite meal in front of him, his beautifully supple body, all white limbs and long lines. He felt like he could just stare at him for hours, but right now, as his hand traced down towards Timothée’s hard prick, which was weeping freely against his muscled lower stomach… right now, he wanted to return the favour. He bit Timothée’s stomach gently, and then continued his journey downwards.

**

The next morning, he awoke slowly, his body languid and relaxed. It took him a moment or two to realise why he felt so at peace, and then for his mind to understand that last night hadn’t been some wonderful dream, and that he really had spent an hour or two in the arms of his lover. For a few wonderful hours when he hadn’t been Lord Berkeley at all, but instead had just been Armie. Armie who had been allowed to love whoever he wanted, and to feel exactly as he wanted, just for a few hours.

A feeling like sluicing into a cold stream in springtime slid over him a second later. What happened last night wasn’t the norm, and he now he had to put back on Lord Berkeley like he would soon put on his breeches and tunic, and become who he was in the daylight, and who he had to be for all the people who needed him.

Once he was dressed he followed his pageboy out of the room and into the hallway. He paused when a door opened to his right, and Timothée emerged. He’d clearly tried to tame his curls with a brush this morning, but hadn’t done a particularly good job, as they were still sticking out a little around his ears.

‘Good morning,’ Armie said, letting a smile slide across his face, a secret smile, a smile that said so much more than just the customary graciousness found on someone’s face.

‘Good morning,’ said Timothée, his own secret smile appearing for a few moments, just for Armie.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asked, gesturing his head towards the corridor that led towards the hall, where breakfast would be laid out for them.

Timothée grinned, ‘Famished.’


	20. Thoughts, Many Of Them Complex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Somehow, he was able to just enjoy those moments for what they were._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a rough time in this fandom this week, so here... have some medieval escapism. 
> 
> Just remember, if it gets too much, step away from the social media bullshit, go outside, talk to real friends, have a nice cup of tea, and enjoy a nap. 
> 
> Love V  
> xxx

He walked through the nearly leafless orchard, Henri gambolling playfully with Ned – Armie’s puppy – just in front of him. He’d headed out past the stable to go for a bit of a walk and whistled for Henri, who he knew would be in the stable yard somewhere, probably getting under the feet of the stable hands. The dog, recognising the sound of his voice (if not yet his whistle) even after this period of time, came running out to meet him (and probably to see if he had any more of those scraps of biscuit that he’d been using to train him). Ned, so named after Armie’s older brother, had followed swiftly on Henri’s heels, clearly not prepared to give up playing just yet. He didn’t know where Max or Juno – Annie and Alice’s new puppies respectively – were at this moment, as they hadn’t joined their brothers when they’d run to greet him. Maybe the ladies had them with them. Both of them had been absolutely delighted when Armie had presented with their puppies, and Timothée hadn’t seen either of them without their puppies by their sides for long.

For his part, he’d decided to walk down to the orchard to run off a bit of their energy, and perhaps continue the “fetch” training that he’d started with Henri the other day. He’d come out for a walk, seeing a break in the weather, and also because he’d been in the records room all morning, writing out various things, and copying out others. His eyes had been getting tired, and his hands had been cramping as it seemed like there was a never-ending supply of records that needed translating, copying, or ordering, and he felt like he’d barely scratched the surface of the task. Armie seemed pleased with the progress he’d made so far, however, so at least he was achieving something.

Having the records room as something to do, a task that would actually help with the castle and keep was helping with his feelings of guilt that he couldn’t entirely shake. He couldn’t quite understand why he was feeling guilty; maybe because his father had died and he had survived? Maybe because he was effectively living on Armie’s charity? Because he’d left his sister without her one living family member? All of those things? Either way, they created this horrible jumbled mess inside of him that he sometimes felt was going to rise up his throat and choke him. But then he thought about the job he was doing helping Armie in the records room, and at least one part of his guilt was assuaged; he had some kind of purpose here, even if it wasn’t a life he would have chosen for himself. But if he hadn’t ended up here, then he wouldn’t have had these days with Armie that had been like breathing fresh air after being stuck inside for years. He felt like his head broke above water when he was with the other man. In those moments, he wasn’t worried about what his purpose was, or whether or not he was supposed to feel guilty. Somehow, he was able to just enjoy those moments for what they were.

‘Henri!’ he shouted, to get the puppy’s attention. He picked up a fallen stick off the ground and made the puppy watch it as he held it (a difficult feat as everything (including that tiny bit of grass that blew past) was more exciting than paying attention to him for more than a second or two), before he threw it, shouting “fetch!” as he did so. Henri watched the stick fly through the air, and both he and Ned bounded after it, racing each other to get to it first. Henri won, but ended up tumbling ears over paws as he managed to grab it, looking a little startled when he righted himself again. Timothée couldn’t help but laugh at the confused look on his face.

‘Come here!’ he said, patting his thigh, ‘Come on!’

Henri looked at him for a moment, and then deciding he was genuine, came hurrying back. He made it two-thirds of the way before he lost interest, dropped the stick (which Ned promptly stole), and went off in a different direction. Henri looked most aggrieved when he realised a moment a later that his stick had been taken, and started to wrestle with Ned for ownership. Timothée rolled his eyes; they were both clearly too excited for any focused training today, so he simply kept walking, deciding it was probably best if he just let them tire themselves out a bit. That way, when Henri inevitably followed him back upstairs to the records room this afternoon, he’d probably just curl up to sleep, rather than causing any particular mayhem. He didn’t want any of the records to be chewed; lots of them were in a bad enough state as it was.

He went back to thinking about his current situation; the job he currently had, whilst long and detailed, was definitely finite. There would be an end point where everything was complete. What would be Armie’s excuse for keeping him around then? As far as he knew, Armie hadn’t told anyone that his father had died, and therefore no ransom might be expected for his release. That particular omission – if Armie chose to keep it that way – could be held up for a good long while. News did not travel fast, and there was no particular reason why anyone other than Armie would expect to hear news about a particular French nobleman and whether or not the ransom money would be forthcoming. But surely, eventually, someone would start asking questions. He himself was asking questions, even now. Eventually someone else would notice that nothing had occurred with his status, wouldn’t they? He hoped Armie had at least thought of some kind of excuse as to why this might be for when it inevitably occurred.

He blew out a breath, heartened to see that it wasn’t yet cold enough for him to be able to see his own exhalation. It was the beginning of November, and according to Armie, they often got snow in this part of the world when winter drew in. Armie had said something about wanting to go to the hunting lodge he’d previously talked about and do a final hunt after the end of the deer rut, and before winter properly drew in. That would be within the next week or so, Timothée surmised. He wondered if he was invited to go along. Even if they’d been away only last week because of the skirmish at Lanercost, it would still be nice to journey with Armie outside of the keep and the city. He was interested to see the ruins of the Roman wall that Armie had mentioned when they were on the road to Lanercost.

It was curious to him that the fighting that had occurred only a week before was already slipping from the memories of people around here, and that it would go down as a minor footnote in the records; a skirmish between two minor armies. He had been injured, there had been those who had died. For the widows and orphans of the men who hadn’t returned home from the battlefield last week, it was anything but minor. It was curious how history recorded things in such a sweeping way, when on the ground, and for the people directly affected, the reality was often very different.

He nearly fell to the ground a moment later, brutally shaken from his thoughts, when someone walked purposefully into him, shoving him hard in the shoulder. He let out an ‘oof’ as he steadied himself, wincing as the pain shot through the healing bruises on his ribs and stomach, before looking up and finding with very little surprise that the man who had shoved him was Matthews. The squire was with another man who Timothée didn’t recognise, but he too was wearing some sort of guardsman garb, so he must have been one of the soldiers posted at the keep or in the city. He was unarmed Timothée noticed, so perhaps he was off duty, or was just about to report.

‘Watch where you’re walking Frenchman,’ hissed Matthews in his direction, looking to the other man for backup and to egg him on. The guardsman was grinning.

‘Fuck off, Matthews,’ said Timothée. His English still might not be fantastic, but he had spent enough time around soldiers and the like to learn a few choice phrases of his own.

‘What did you say?’ Matthews asked, his eyes narrowing as he took a step closer, invading his space.

Quick as flash, Timothée reached for the short dagger that hung from his belt at all times when he was out and about. It wasn’t a particularly lethal weapon; being only six inches long, but it was wicked sharp and would still do some damage if he chose to wield it properly. The drawing of the blade made the squire stop short and look between him and the knife. Close to his feet, he heard Henri growl; but being the size of a small badger at the moment it wasn’t overly threatening. He didn’t dare look down at his dog and take his eyes off Matthews’ face.

‘Don’t try it,’ he said to Matthews, in French, knowing the other man could understand him. Timothée, for his part, could feel his palm sweating where he gripped the knife, but he held it tight. He was done taking Matthews’ ire; directed at him for seemingly no reason. If he could scare the man a little, show him that he wasn’t to be toyed with like a puppet, perhaps the other man would back down and leave him the hell alone. He knew that if they wanted to, the two men could overpower him, but not before he did some damage to the pair of them.

‘You’re asking for it Frenchman,’ sneered Matthews finally, before stepping back and murmuring to his companion, ‘C’mon.’

His eyes flicking between Timothée and the knife he held once more, the squire finally turned with the other soldier and together they sloped off.

It took about another ten seconds before Timothée actually breathed out, and his grip on the knife loosened slightly, before he slid it back into the sheath on his belt. That could have been extremely ugly, he thought, as his heartrate slowed to its normal thud. He’d never really understood why Armie’s squire hated him so much, other than that the man was clearly jealous, petty, and spiteful. He wondered why Armie had chosen him as his squire. He’d have to ask him at some point. He looked one last time to check that Matthews had definitely gone, before he continued walking, although this time it was more in a loop, making sure that he was heading parallel to the keep, rather than away from it. He didn’t want to be gone too long. He slipped both Henri and Ned a piece of biscuit from his pocket, delighted that his dog’s natural reaction to someone who was clearly behaving aggressively towards him was to growl. That would become more of a deterrent the older Henri got. He’d grown about an inch in the week since Timothée had had him; who knew just how big he would eventually get? He was immensely glad that Armie had said that he could have one of the puppies; it gave him a companion of his own when everyone else was busy or not who he was seeking out at the time (usually Armie).

And just like that his mind was back on his… what was Armie to him these days? He couldn’t use the word captor anymore, although that was still technically true. The man was his employer, of sorts, although he wasn’t paying him for the work he did in the records room, other than in caring for him in very nice accommodation and standard of living. No, he supposed the name he would use was his _lover_. That much was definitely true, he thought, his mouth curling upwards in a soft smile as he thought about the recent nights that Armie had spent in his bed, where with hands and mouths they had brought each other pleasure over and over again. Last night Armie had even slept in his bed for a few hours before slipping out in the early light of dawn.

He’d asked Armie last night whether he’d ever want to be inside him. Even just thinking about it now made Timothée’s toes curl in his boots in a shiver of delight. He’d love for that to happen (or for him to be inside Armie – he wasn’t overly bothered as to which way it occurred), imagining how intense that might be. He’d done it a few times with lovers in the past, and his brain had practically leaked out of his ears with the pleasure it had brought. Armie had growled the low growl from deep in his chest when he’d asked and proceeded to kiss him with such passion that he’d momentarily forgotten how to breathe.

Afterwards Armie’d said he’d love to, but that they couldn’t until he’d found something to work as an oil to slick the way. He didn’t want to cause him any pain or discomfort if they do choose to do this. For his part, Timothée hoped that it wouldn’t take Armie too long to figure out something to use. When he’d done it in the past, he’d used olive oil, but he thought this was probably hard to get hold of in early winter in northern England. Trade would bring the substance to these shores, but probably not at the moment. There must be something else he could come up with. He smiled again as he continued to imagine down this road for a moment or two before he stopped himself. He had to think of something else, otherwise he’d never actually be able to walk back up to the keep. He was still wearing Armie’s brother’s clothes for the most part, and whilst they fit alright, they were a little tight.

He breathed deeply to calm himself down for a minute or two as he walked, mind focusing firmly on Henri and Ned as they chased a collared dove around (the stupid bird kept landing about twenty feet away from them rather than in an actual tree where they would have no hope of reaching it). He called them back a moment or two later, deciding it was time to get back inside.

Today was the day the petitioners from the city and the nearby area would come and present their claims and problems to Armie in the hall. Whilst his presence wasn’t formally required (Dunstan would be jotting down anything that needed to be taken down for him to deal with later, as he knew the names and details of the people present and could keep up with the fast spoken English), he thought he would take a look to see what the proceedings were like before returning to his task.

He nodded to the sergeant-at-arms as he walked up the stairs to the keep, with both puppies by his side, and then the short set of steps into the great hall. It was packed with people, the smell of unwashed bodies was pervasive, and he had to wriggle a little to get through the crowds. He lost sight of Henri and Ned, but they would be alright. They’d probably make their way upstairs if the people got too much for them. Peering over the shoulders of some of the onlookers, he could see a long line of people waiting to have their petitions heard. Armie was sitting on the dais, with Alice by his side. The tables that were usually in here had been pushed back to make more room, and give space for the theatre that was the petitions; especially those that were one person vs. another. Timothée’s eyes weren’t watching the petitioners, however, and they drifted over to Armie. He was dressed in his lordly garb, the deep blue cloak, and the gold coronet resting on his brow, giving him a serious, elegant, and opulent look. He looked like a painting of magnanimous power, and it took Timothée’s breath away.

Two people were currently standing in front of Armie arguing about something, although Armie was making one of them speak at a time. They kept trying to talk over each other, but each time, Armie held up his hand to the one who had interrupted, allowing the other to speak and finish their argument. Timothée couldn’t understand a word that either were saying, as they were speaking heavily accented English very quickly. Eventually he gave up trying to understand what was going on and backed his way out of the hall, grabbing a crusty roll from the table that was laid out for the petitioners and others gathered there today, before he headed up the stairs to the records room to continue what he’d been doing before heading outside. The two guards at the bottom of the stairs nodded and let him passed. People around the castle were definitely getting to used him being there, and understanding what his position was within the hierarchy of the castle. It seemed like Armie’s “honoured guest” status had finally taken root.

The records room was quiet, and as he suspected, he found Henri and Ned sitting in the corridor outside. He grinned and opened the door to let them in, at which point they immediately went in and lay in front of the fire. They’d be there for the next couple of hours, until Timothée got up which might signal it was time to eat again. He’d left a half-copied letter on the desk when he’d got up to go for the walk outside, and he sat down to continue with it, after he’d finished eating the roll. Once he’d done this, he’d decided, he would write to Pauline. He knew Armie had responded to her letter with news of his father’s death, the day after it had arrived. But he wanted to send one of his own, and he was certain that Armie would allow him to send it. It wasn’t like he was going to say anything that Armie didn’t already know. The letter would take weeks to arrive at its destination, but he would glad to know that he was able to communicate Pauline in some way or another. He briefly wondered if he would ever see her again. He hoped so. He swallowed the sudden thickness in his throat at that thought, and pulled the letter he’d been copying towards him, before picking up the quill and dipping it in the ink. He grinned as, just before he began to work again, Henri let out a loud snore that belied his size from in front of the fire. He looked over, and could see the puppy’s paws were moving as he was dreaming; clearly he was still chasing that collared dove from the orchard earlier as he slept. His heart instantly felt lighter as he watched the puppy for a few moments, before he turned back to his work.


	21. Hidden Pleasure, Hidden Danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only thing I will say about the ongoing ~drama is that, if it bothers you, please download this work and change the names to whatever you might like (Elio/Oliver for example). This is an AU story meant to provide a little bit of joy and escapism, and as long as it keeps doing that for me, I'll keep writing it. I hope you'll keep reading and commenting. 
> 
> Love V  
> xxxx

‘We’re going hunting,’ said Armie, his arm above his head as his chest rose and fell. It was the middle of the night and Armie was lying in his bed. So far they’d shared two mind-blowing climaxes and were resting next to each other, regaining their breath. This was basically the first thing Armie had said to him since entering his room, as before that all he’d done was take the other man in his arms, before dropping to his knees, hungry with his own desire and need for each other.

‘Oh?’ he said, looking over at his lover.

‘Yeah, I said we would, didn’t I?’

‘You said _you_ would,’ Timothée reminded him, ‘I didn’t know whether I would be coming along.’

‘Of course you are!’ said Armie instantly, ‘I apologise, I should have made that clear.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, rolling up onto his front and looking down at Armie, ‘When shall we go? And who else will come?’

He could just see the outline of Armie’s profile in the dark; the sharp jawline and brow, his eye colour lost to the darkness.

‘A few days from now,’ said Armie, ‘And I thought as few people as possible. Henry certainly, perhaps Duncan if he has returned by then, and a stable hand to help look after the horses. That should probably be sufficient.’

‘No servants?’ he asked, curious.

Armie smiled and then shook his head, ‘Henry can cook when he needs to, and we can do everything else ourselves can we not?’

‘Of course,’ he agreed, thinking it would actually be rather nice not to be tripping over a valet or a maid at every turn. Of course he’d had servants when he’d been at home, but perhaps because he’d been so used to them they hadn’t seemed so pervasive into his everyday life as the ones at the keep. Perhaps it was also because Armie’s servants still treated him as somewhat “other” or as not belonging, so their interactions with him were more stilted or forced than he had been accustomed to when at home. Also, he’d known most of the people in his home since he was a child. These people were all still so new.

It was a few days since his walk in the orchard and his altercation with Matthews, and he had yet to bring it up with Armie. The more time had passed between the incident and the current moment, the less important it had seemed, the more trivial it would be to tell him. He knew Matthews hated him, and he was pretty sure Armie knew there was no love lost between them. He didn’t want to seem pathetic, or needy, by laying every problem he had at Armie’s feet. No, he could deal with Matthews, as he shown in the orchard with his dagger. The squire hadn’t even looked at him since that day, so hopefully he’d come to the conclusion that it was simply wiser to leave him alone.

Armie cleared his throat a moment later, shifting slightly.

‘What is it?’ Timothée asked, recognising that he was wanting to say something but perhaps did not know how to bring it up.

‘I… er… found something I thought would work,’ said Armie, and Timmy could have sworn that if he’d been able to see the colour in his face then it would have been suffused with a blush.

‘Huh?’ he said, ‘What are you talking about?’

‘For me… wanting to be inside you,’ said Armie.

His breath hitched involuntarily just at the thought of it.

‘Oh?’ his voice suddenly much higher than it would normally be, causing him to blush and cough to try and cover up the squeak.

Armie chuckled under his breath, before he rolled over onto his side and leaned over the edge of the bed where he had dropped (or more like Timothée had chucked) his clothes when he’d entered the room. He rolled back a moment later with a small wooden pot in his hand and handed it to Timothée. He sat up and unscrewed it, gave it a sniff and immediately screwed up his nose at the smell – a sort of stuffy, leathery smell.

‘What is that?’ he said.

‘It’s lanolin,’ Armie said almost apologetically, ‘I know it’s not the best smelling stuff in the world – but it’s what they use to care and soften for the leather in the stables and the tailor, and leather is basically skin so I thought… well, I thought it would probably work.’

Timothée couldn’t exactly argue with that logic, and whilst the smell wasn’t the greatest, once he’d gotten used to it it wasn’t too bad. He put a little on his finger and smeared it across the pads and his thumb. It was soft and definitely slick. It would probably work.

‘Seems like it’ll be alright,’ he said, wiping it away a moment later on the bedspread, and then realising he was still holding the open jar, slightly foolishly, ‘Did you er… want to?’

Armie chuckled throatily, ‘Not what I was planning tonight, no. I want you to prepare yourself.’

‘Mmmm?’ he said, the thought of that immediately sending a pulse down into his loins.

‘I’m… er… not exactly small,’ said Armie, and Timothée couldn’t help but let a little laugh in acquiescence, before Armie continued, ‘So, before we go to the lodge, it would probably be a good idea if you got used to it again… I assume it’s been a while?’

He nodded, ‘Definitely. A few years at least.’

‘Quite,’ said Armie, ‘And I don’t want it to be anything but pleasure when we do this, I want you to be able to take all of me.’

Another pulse to his groin, and a soft groan escaped his lips. He might have only reached his climax a short while ago, but his cock was already stirring again with interest, the images that Armie was creating with his words making it hard for him to focus. This didn’t escape Armie’s notice as his hand slid down his side and rested on his thigh. He couldn’t help but push his hips towards Armie’s fingers, wanting him to touch him.

‘Yes?’ Armie asked.

All Timmy did in response was roll completely towards him, so he could rut gently against Armie’s hip, his face in the crook of his neck as he nodded.

‘Yes,’ he confirmed as Armie started to stroke him and his mind turned to mush.

*

So it was, that he found himself the following evening, after he’d taken a bath and the serving boy had emptied it before two others had helped him carry the wooden tub away, standing holding the small tub that Armie had given him the previous night. He felt a little foolish simply standing there, in his night robe. He knew _what_ to do, having done it before, and having had it done to him, but he just didn’t quite know how to start. He knew what Armie wanted of him, and why. That much, made sense. Armie’s prick wasn’t small, and like Armie, he didn’t want there to be any discomfort (or as much as could be avoided) when they first did this. He unscrewed the lid of the pot, the slightly stuffy oily smell immediately pervading his nostrils. Olive oil definitely smelt better, but if this was all they had, then this is what he would use.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before chucking the pot on his bed. The slippery substance was very solid, so he didn’t need to worry about any of it spilling. Next, he made sure to check the chamber door was locked. He knew Armie wasn’t visiting tonight, as he’d already told him that he was visiting Alice’s chambers this evening. The idea didn’t cause him any distress or jealousy. It was just part of what Armie had to do in his duties as lord. He imagined he would feel the same if Armie told him that he was spending the night away from the castle on some business or other. It was nothing more than that really; just business.

The only way this was going to feel a little less odd was if he imagined that it was Armie that was doing this to him. He imagined how he would come in the door, tell him that he wanted him, wanted to ready him himself, even if he thought he was already ready. He lay him down on the bed after dotting his face with kisses, before reaching for the little tub and slicking up two fingers. He wouldn’t start with two right away, as it had been a long while since Timothée had done this, and he wanted to be as comfortable as possible. If it were Armie in charge, he’d get him to roll onto his side, and bring one knee up to his chest, giving the other man easy access and space for his fingers to reach the crease of his behind and tease his entrance, rubbing the soft substance around the skin there, until it was slippery to the touch.

Timothée gasped at that first touch; it had been a long time since he had touched himself like this, and imagining that it was Armie’s fingers immediately made him rock hard, and for his prick to curve up, lying hard against his hip as he lay on his side. The angle wasn’t the best, but it was the best one he could find for himself as lying on his front and reaching behind himself got tiring after a while.

He traced his finger around his hole before gently dipping it inside, teasing the sensitive skin. He blew out a breath with a tinge of a moan on it as he continued. Eventually he slid one finger inside of himself; it was unfamiliar sensation after so long, and took a while to get used to, but he persisted, gasping as he _just_ teased that place inside of him that he knew could bring him a huge amount of pleasure. With his own fingers and this angle, he could only just reach, but just brushing it slightly was causing him to writhe on his side and his cock to leak, as he imagined what it would feel like when Armie did it for it real. He withdrew his hand for a moment to add more of the slippery substance to two fingers before teasing his hole with both, working the edge of his hole, moving his hips in conjunction with his fingers so that the tip of his cock was just rubbing against the mattress. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to climax like this, just teasing that place with the tips of his fingers, despite how sensitive the skin at the edge of his hole was, so he wrapped his free hand around his prick, using some of the substance to slick the way as he stroked in tandem with his fingers. He could feel the tightening in his gut as his hips began to move of their own accorded, chasing his pleasure. He bit down hard on his lip to stop himself from crying out as he reached his completion; yes the walls and doors were thick in the castle, but he still didn’t want to invite anybody who might be listening to hear.

He gasped as he came back to himself a moment later, and removing his fingers from his hole and from his prick he collapsed on his back with a sigh, his breathing returning to normal. He could feel his hole pulsing slightly, sending little aftershocks of desire throughout his entire body, and once again he moaned lightly on the outbreath, imagining what it would feel like when Armie was actually inside of him and they did this for real. With another sigh, he pushed the thought aside momentarily to reach for the cloth he chucked on the table by his bedside, to clean himself up.

*

Two days later and they were getting ready to go hunting. He had done some work in the records room this morning and was now carrying a stack of letters bearing both his and Armie’s signature to be delivered to various places around the city or to be held onto until the next messenger came to the keep. Armie had allowed him to sign various lesser orders for some things, it meant he didn’t have to leave so much and wait for Armie before he could send them out. Now only the most important things needed to wait for Armie’s signature, everything else could be dealt with more quickly.

He hurried down the stone stairs carrying his satchel over his shoulder, the leather strap tight so it could be on his back whilst he was riding. He handed the stack of letters to a servant with instructions to give it to Dunstan or Jennings at the earliest possible opportunity. They would make sure that they got to wherever they needed to go. He had other things on his mind at that moment, like the fact that Armie and the rest of the hunting party were already mounted up and waiting for him in the castle courtyard.

‘Come on Timothée!’ yelled Henry jubilantly, ‘We have some hind to hunt, and we won’t get to the lodge until it’s dark at this rate!’

Timothée chuckled as he used the stirrup to push himself up into the saddle. His horse, who he’d named clover, due to a clover shaped splodge on the side of his chestnut neck, was much more used to him now that he’d been down to the stable a few times to feed him titbits, and didn’t move as he mounted up. Henri and Ned were circling under the horses’ feet, excited to be going somewhere. Dependent on how far the ride was, he might have to tie Henri in front of him in a makeshift carry at some point (which he would not like), because as a puppy he might get utterly worn out if it was too far to the lodge.

‘Ready to go?’ Armie asked, smiling, looking across at him, a slight glint in his eye because of the shared secret between them. Armie had been right; there was only a party of five, plus two spare horses and the dogs. Timothée pulled the horse around and with the group they headed out under the gate.


	22. Deep Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helllooooooo, 
> 
> I know this chapter is a bit fillery, but hopefully you like it anyway. :) 
> 
> Stay sane, stay safe, and tell the internet to f**k off if it's doing your head in. 
> 
> Love V  
> xxx
> 
> P.S I hope the Henri/Henry thing isn't confusing. I didnt think of that before I named the dog. 😅

They arrived at the hunting lodge just as the light was fading in the sky. The lodge was a good distance into a forest to the west of the keep, with the mountains of the area creeping up towards the sky in the distance to the south. They marched onto the horizon until they were out of sight in the gloom. Timothée pulled up his horse facing the gap in the trees through which he could see them.

‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they?’ said Armie, seeing where he was looking and digging his heels into Helios’ flanks to draw up alongside him.

‘Yes,’ he said truthfully, ‘I didn’t realise England had many mountains.’

‘Not many,’ said Armie with a shrug, ‘And these are the tallest – that I know of at least, and I’ve seen quite a bit of this country. You saw the ones that run down the middle of the country when we travelled north. It was the measure I used to know we were going in the right direction.’

‘Yeah,’ he said, remembering, ‘But they were more like hills compared to those. Those are enormous.’

‘You do not have mountains where you are from?’

Timotheé shook his head, ‘Far to the west and south are the mountains the separate us from the Moorish kingdoms of Spain.’

‘I though the Christian kingdoms had reconquered a lot of that country?’ Armie asked.

‘Compared to what they used to hold,’ he said with a shrug, ‘But there are still vast swathes in the south that belong to the Moors. Beautiful cities full of amazing architecture and incredible culture.’

‘You’ve been?’ asked Armie, his voice sounding surprised as he slid down from his horse and handed the reigns to the stable hand. Timothée mirrored his actions, thanking the stable hand as he took the bridle.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Timothée, ‘I’ll go help the others first.’

Armie’s eyebrows rose at his response before he shrugged and then nodded, grabbing his own pack where it was tied behind Helios’ saddle. Timothée didn’t feel odd about talking to him this way, there was something different about the energy here already, and it felt as if they were on a completely even footing. Not a Lord and his lackey, but more just two friends. It felt oddly cleansing and they’d only been here for moments. He turned to untie his own belongings and also to let down Henri, who was wiggling furiously to be let free now that they had stopped moving.

The lodge itself was a two-storey split structure, with the stables adjoining the two buildings in the middle. One half of the building was given over to living and eating; a kitchen with a large range fire, comfortable seats and tables, bookcases etc. The other half of the building was sleeping accommodation. The Lord’s room was on the ground floor, curiously, but was much more spacious that the servants or dual guest accommodation on the floor above. There was one further guest chamber on the ground floor. Other than in the Lord’s chamber, the privy was in a small wooden building about fifty paces away from the main block. Armie’s room had its own garderobe, as was to be expected.

They dragged all their stuff into the sitting area. Timmy saw that whoever had been here last had left a small pile of firewood to get the fire started in the main grate in this room, but not enough for the the bedrooms, or other fireplaces in the kitchen.

‘I’ll go chop some wood, hopefully there’s something outside,’ said Henry, looking around, ‘I don’t fancy having to bring down a tree in the dark.’

‘And I’ll get this started,’ said Kitt, the stable hand who had also joined them.

‘Other than yourself, are you bothered where everyone else sleeps?’ asked Duncan, looking across at Armie.

‘Not really,’ said Armie, shrugging his shoulders, ‘You, Henry and Kitt on the top floor, Timothée in the guest room on the ground floor?’

Timothée determinedly kept the smile off his face after Armie had said this with such considered nonchalance, as if he really didn’t care where everyone else slept. Clearly, him being on the ground floor nearby would make any other endeavours… easier. Also, to make life easier he wasn’t having to try and keep up with any English conversation whilst he was here, as Armie had ensured that everyone who had come with them spoke French; including Kitt, who had been raised by a French mother.

‘Do we have anything that we can eat cold?’ Armie asked, looking down as he unpacked the rations that they had brought with him, ‘It’s going to be a long time before the fire is hot enough to actually cook anything on, so at first it’s going to be cold rations.’

Kitt stood up as he got the fire going in the grate, ‘Would you make sure this one stays going, my Lord?’

‘It’s Armie whilst we’re here,’ said Armie to the stable hand, ‘No need for any of that ‘my lord’ formality.’

Kitt’s eyebrows rose in surprise at this information, ‘Um, okay, er… Armie.’

Timothée couldn’t help but smile as he tested out the word without any form of honorific attached to it, as if the word felt strange in his mouth. Armie smiled encouragingly at him.

‘Can you come help me with the fires in the other rooms?’ Kitt asked him, ‘Err… Timothée?’

He botched the pronunciation so Timmy just clapped him on the shoulder, ‘Just go with Tim.’

**

After all the fires were laid they reconvened in the sitting area to eat. Armie had divided the food into five shares, no one getting any more than anyone else, and for a few moments there was silence, as they hushed their grumbling stomachs by eating their fill. Henri and Ned were sat alongside them, sleeping soundly. The journey here had worn them out, despite the fact Timothée had strapped Henri in front of him for the last third of the ride when he was too tired to keep up. He’d hated it at first, his paws wiggling in annoyance for a while before he’d fallen asleep, giving himself over to the fact that he was tired out. Now he was snoring happily at Timothée’s feet. It was so endearing how much he slept; these long periods of exhaustion interspersed with periods of ridiculous amounts of energy.

‘So, how are you finding wedded life, Armie?’ said Henry after they had eaten most of the food and Duncan was sharing around some wine that they had brought with them. Kitt nearly choked on his drink, probably wondering whether he was allowed to be privy to this conversation.

‘It’s good,’ said Armie with a gentle smile, ‘The lady Alice is amenable and has so far proved to be a help with household matters. I’ve passed a lot of those concerns over to her already. It’s been a great help to myself and Dunstan.’

Henry looked at him with a grin, ‘Okay, that’s the boring stuff. How is married life, _really_?’

Armie chuckled a little, ‘I’ll not say much, because I do not want to dishonour my lady wife. But time spent with her is… _more_ than satisfactory.’

Henry and Duncan guffawed with laughter, but Timothée couldn’t manage any more than a weak smile, pulling his lips up at the corners. He couldn’t allow himself to be affected by the talk that would surely happen over these few days; he knew Armie fucked his wife, so why did him saying it out loud seem to bother him more? He knew Armie was trying to meet his eye, but he studiously ignored him for a moment, instead eating some more bread and drinking deep his cup of wine. What did it matter to him if the sex Armie had with his wife was adequate? The sex they shared was positively mind-blowing.

‘Well that’s good to hear!’ said Henry, ‘Nothing worse than bad sex.’

‘Lots of experience in that department, eh, Henry?’ said Duncan, ‘Wife not doing it for you anymore?’

Henry shoved Duncan, making him fall over off his chest and the rest of them to burst out giggling.

‘My wife is good, thank you,’ said Henry, glaring at Duncan who was still lying on the floor where he’d been shoved. Even Timothée couldn’t help but grin at their antics. They’d served together for so many years that they were able to fool around and not actually insult each other in the process.

‘So, where are we going tomorrow?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘I thought we’d head up to the Roman wall,’ said Armie, licking some of the sauce from the bread off his fingers. Timothée couldn’t help but watch as his lips tightened around the digit, and his tongue licking a stray bit of sauce off the end. He looked away when he realised he was staring at the progress of Armie’s tongue and didn’t want the other men to notice. It was then his eyes flicked up to Armie’s; he’d definitely seen him looking, judging by the tiny crinkle at the corner of his eyes.

‘I remember you and Ned finding those coins there when you were younger,’ said Henry thoughtfully, ‘You were obsessed with those things for weeks,’ and then as Duncan sat back up again, shoved him once more, making the rest of them crack up laughing, and Duncan to swear loudly as he was taken by surprise.

‘What happened to those?’ Henry asked, ‘I never saw them after a few months.’

‘I honestly don’t know,’ said Armie pensively, ‘I guess we just lost them. Or perhaps William stole them. He always did have magpie like tendencies.

‘Maybe you’ll find some more tomorrow,’ said Henry with a shrug.

‘I want to leave early,’ said Armie, ‘Dawn.’

‘Right you are sir,’ said Kitt, but he didn’t look pleased by this piece of information; if they were leaving at dawn, then he was going to have to be up even earlier than that to make sure the horses were fed, watered and tacked up.

‘It’s Armie,’ Armie reminded him. Kitt looked uncomfortable with this, apparently feeling as if using his Lord’s first name was a step too far, ‘We should retire, we’re going to be up early.’

‘Aye,’ said Duncan in agreement, ‘Am I going to be allowed to get up off the floor now?’

Henry looked down at him, a considered look on his face, before he grinned and nodded, holding out his hand to Duncan to help him up. Halfway up he let go so Duncan fell on his arse again and they all burst out laughing once more, even though it was extremely childish. Henri woke up and barked unhappily at the burst of noise causing Timothée to stroke his ears and the top of head to settle him down again. Ned looked distinctly unbothered by the commotion; merely raising one ear, and not bothering to get up.

‘C’mon boy, let’s go to bed,’ said Timothée standing up and motioning to his dog, ‘Goodnight gentlemen.’

He nodded to the other men before he turned around and headed out through main door and into the guest accommodation building. He stuck his head into the stable to check in on his horse, and saw that he currently had his nose in a feedbag and was munching happily. Kitt had seen to them well.

He clicked his tongue to get Henri out of the small feed bag that had been left on the floor and they headed towards his bedroom. He wondered how tonight would happen; or even _if_ it was going to happen tonight. Despite the odd feeling that had run through him when Armie had mentioned Alice earlier, he was still really excited about actually sleeping with Armie. It seemed ridiculous that the dizzy feeling affected him at all; he was a grown man, he shouldn’t feel like this. But what he had with the other man brought him pleasure, excitement, and more than a little bit of joy. He guessed that he shouldn’t beat himself up about looking forward to experiencing that pleasure. He let a little smile drift across his face as he let himself into his guest room. It was lovely and warm in here as the fire had been going for several hours already. He shoved a few other logs onto it from the pile beside the hearth to ensure that it would keep going, and keep the room warm throughout the night.

He turned to the bed and to strip down to sleep. He noticed that Henri had leapt up onto the counterpane and had curled up to go to sleep right in the middle of the bed.

‘You’re going to have to move boy, otherwise I’m not going to fit’ he said, sliding onto the bed and shoving the dog so that he begrudgingly moved out of the way to give him enough room to slide in.

He was just drifting off to sleep a few moments later when there was a very quiet knock at the door, and Armie appeared in the small gap he pushed open.

‘You coming in?’ Timothée whispered looking over at him.

Armie shook his head, ‘An hour. My room.’

He pointed above them, and Timothée heard footsteps on the wooden floorboards, telling him that Henry, Duncan and Kitt were still awake. They needed until everyone else was asleep and wouldn’t be listening for anyone else moving around.

‘One hour,’ he said with a little nod, before biting his lip.

He saw Armie smile, his blue eyes lighting up in delight at the promise of what was to come.


	23. Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This really could have been the second half of the last chapter, but idk... I just wanted to get something out more quickly last time, so I split them up. Either way hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Stay safe, stay sane, be kind. 
> 
> Love V  
> xxx

He stared up at the ceiling, a sated and happy grin on his face, his eyes tracing the patterns in the wood of the beams above. He was lying atop the fur throw on the counterpane, his hand resting gently on his rosy chest as his heart rate calmed to normal.

‘Hmmm?’ came an equally satisfied sound from beside him.

Slowly, because he felt like all his bones had melted into a pool of liquid delight, he turned his head to look at his lover, who was currently resting with his face buried into a cushion, long lean torso and legs beautiful in the firelight.

‘Mmmm,’ was about all he could manage in response, and then a throaty little chuckle as he registered how they both sounded.

‘I’ll go get something to clean up,’ said the man next to him, ‘… In a minute.’

This time the chuckle was more pronounced as he rolled up onto his elbow and kissed the bare shoulder that was closest to him, ‘I’ll go.’

And with that he rolled off the bed in the opposite direction, and went in search of the ornate jug and bowl that he knew would be near the garderobe somewhere. He found it, and the linen cloth that was inside. He couldn’t help but let out a small grunt of amusement that the insignia of Armie’s house was carefully stitched into the cloth, and what it was about to be used for. Whoever had spent hours carefully embroidering this cloth probably didn’t intend for it be used to clean the residue of sex from naked bodies.

‘What’s funny?’ came the languid question from the bed.

‘Ah nothing really,’ he said, turning as he cleaned off his chest, ‘Just that whoever lovingly made this cloth probably didn’t intend for it to be used to wipe spunk off the Lord’s prick.’

Armie burst out laughing before stuffing his hand over his mouth to stifle the noise; ‘Well, when you put it like that. Probably not.’

Timothée wandered back over before dropping the damp cloth on Armie’s hip so he could clean himself off, which he duly did before chucking the cloth off the bed somewhere.

‘C’mere,’ he murmured, raising an arm, inviting Timothée into his embrace once again, ‘As much as I like the view; you’ll get cold stood there with no clothes on.’

Timothée giggled and then slid back onto the bed, curling himself into the warmth of Armie’s side, enjoying the warm glow that the firelight was casting over both of them.

‘That was pretty good wasn’t it?’ Armie murmured when they’d been lying there for a few moments.

‘It was,’ said Timothée giggling, ‘More than pretty good… mind-blowingly amazing.’

Armie twisted towards him and kissed his cheek, ‘Timothée, I…’

He tailed off.

‘Yeah?’ he breathed, imagining what Armie was about to say, but wanting to actually hear him say it out loud.

‘Never mind,’ said Armie, shaking his head and lying back down, hugging him tightly instead. Timothée couldn’t help but be a little disappointed that he didn’t get to hear whatever was on Armie’s mind, but he let it go for now, enjoying lying next to him, his arm holding him close.

**

_He motioned to Henri to lie back down as he stood up from the bed, after watching the candle dwindle an inch or so since Armie had peered into his room. He wrapped his cloak around him as it was chilly outside of the direct warmth of the fire. He slipped out into the corridor quietly, making sure the door didn’t make a noise as he closed it. It was only a couple of paces across to Armie’s door, but in the dark he wanted to make sure he didn’t make a noise or fall over anything, so it took him a moment before his hand found the latch and he quietly opened the door to Armie’s rooms._

_His back was turned to the room in order to quietly shut the door and turn the key in the lock without making a sound, but when he turned back to the room and the bed, his jaw dropped. Armie was lying up on his pillows with his hand wrapped around his prick, stroking himself. It made quite a sight._

_‘Fuck,’ he said, eyes glued to the visual in front of him, his own prick immediately stirring in interest._

_Armie’s eyes opened slightly, a smile curling his mouth into a sensuous smirk; ‘That’s what I was hoping.’_

_Timothée didn’t wait a second longer before divesting himself of his cloak and the nightshirt underneath, dropping them unceremoniously to the floor, and joining Armie on top of the furs. He ran his hands up his flank, feeling the hard muscle under his palm, and instantly feeling that flash of amazement he was allowed to put his hands on this man in this way. He would never stop counting his lucky stars that he could do such a thing._

_‘Kiss me,’ said Armie, pulling him close so they were hip to hip. He groaned as they ground together, and put his hand on Armie’s waist and shoulder to eliminate any space between them; skin to skin. He wanted to have Armie as close as physically possible, and then even closer if he could. He felt like he couldn’t get enough of this man, and never wanted to be apart from touching him._

_A few moments later and Armie rolled them so that he was underneath him. He kissed down his neck, before capturing his lips once again in a bruising kiss._

_‘God, your mouth…’ groaned Armie, breaking away for a moment and looking down at him, ‘I love your mouth.’_

_‘I want you,’ he said, not feeling the need to beat around the bush any further._

_‘I want you too,’ Armie said, sliding down his body kissing as he went, ‘Your body is so beautiful.’_

_He would have blushed if he could, but right now he was so turned on that most of his blood seemed either to be making his body flush red, or to harden his prick._

_‘Spread your legs,’ Armie growled a second later in a biting order._

_He couldn’t even summon half a reason to deny the request, and spread his thighs so Armie could lie comfortably between them, his hands on the warm skin of his inner thighs._

_‘Did you bring the lanolin?’ asked Armie._

_‘Yeah, it’s on the floor with my clothes, but I prepared already,’ he said with a grin, ‘I had some time to kill in my room after you left… so I did it myself.’_

_Armie groaned, deep his chest, dipping his head to look between his legs, and moaning when he saw he wasn’t lying._

_‘Even so,’ said Armie, leaning across to the pile of clothes and picking up the pot that he’d brought from his room. Timothée couldn’t help but gasp at the sensuous image of Armie slicking his fingers in order to prepare him further._

_‘Fuuuuuck,’ he breathed, unable to keep his mouth shut as Armie’s fingers trailed around his already relaxed entrance. His muscles clenched in anticipation, causing Armie to stroke him softly on the thigh._

_‘Relax…’ he soothed. He tried to do just that but couldn’t focus with Armie’s fingers at his hole and his other hand so close to his cock. A few moments later and Armie had three fingers inside of him, stroking him, causing his back to arch and him to gasp as his stomach muscles clenched in pleasure. He was ensuring that he was properly stretched to take him, and there was enough slick so that it wouldn’t be uncomfortable._

_‘I’m ready,’ he moaned a minute later._

_‘Are you sure?’ Armie said, looking up at him._

_‘More than sure,’ he said, hips pulsing as Armie stroked over that centre of pleasure inside of him that made him see stars._

_A few moments later and Armie slid up his body again, kissing him softly on the side of the jaw. Tim moved so his knees were either side of Armie’s hips._

_‘Fuck me,’ he breathed._

_Armie grinned down at him, shifting his hips and taking himself in his hand to guide himself home._

_‘Tilt your hips,’ he said after a second, ‘It’ll feel better.’_

_He reached over and got a cushion from beside them on the bed, putting it under his hips, lifting them slightly. A second later and he felt Armie’s cock nudge his hole, his rim giving slightly in supplication; mirroring his mental desire to have this man sink into his body._

_‘Ready?’_

_In answer, he reached up to pull the other man down for a kiss. He could feel each inch of Armie as he sunk inside of him. He could feel the stretch and he gasped at the sensation of his body making way for his lover. No matter how much he was prepared, Armie was still huge and he wilfully had to relax to take him in._

_‘God, you’re so tight,’ said Armie as he bottomed out, ‘Fuck.’_

_Timothée was focused on his mouth as he began to move his hips. He was overcome at all the sensations overtaking his body at the feeling of Armie finally inside of him, each thrust causing him a pulse of pleasure to rise inside of him and gather in his belly. Seconds, minutes, or aeons could pass him by as long as Armie kept hold of him and making him feel the way he was right now._

_‘God,’ he moaned out, ‘You feel amazing. Just there. Please Armie! Uh…’_

_His hand slid down between to take hold of his cock, and stroke himself towards completion._

_‘Don’t touch yourself,’ Armie growled, batting his hand away, ‘You cum on my cock or in my mouth; not by your own hand.’_

_He moaned, his eyes fluttering shut at the filth falling from Armie’s mouth. He was overcome by the sensation of Armie inside of him, the feeling of his mouth on his skin, and his beautiful eyes looking down at him. He was moaning freely and he could feel his toes curling as pleasure rushed through his form, from his fingers, toes, and right to the curls on the top of his head._

_‘Uhh Armie I’m going to cum,’ he moaned desperately, ‘Are you close?’_

_Armie didn’t respond but simply gripped him by the thigh, pulling him tight against him, speeding up and pounding his body with precise thrusts that was driving him crazy and his cock to leak freely._

_‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he moaned as his entire body went taut and he came between them, without ever touching himself, just from Armie’s cock in his hole. A few seconds later Armie’s body stiffened, he thrust deeply twice more, and Timothée could feel his release coating his walls, before he relaxed, his body boneless on top of his own, uncaring of the mess between them, or the heat of their shared forms._

_**_

‘You were going to tell me about when you were younger,’ said Armie, his hand tracing patterns on his hip. It was a little later, and Armie had put another log on the fire so that there was enough light for them to lie in the gloom

‘I was?’

‘Mmmm,’ he said, ‘You said you’d been to the Moorish kingdoms when you were younger?’ he said, ‘What was that like? And how did that happen?’

He shrugged, ‘My father was an emissary for the king. As his eldest son, he sometimes took me on his travels with him. We were often away for months at a time.’

‘That’s incredible,’ Armie murmured, ‘You must have been to so many places. I’ve only ever seen England, and Northern France… which is a lot like England, if we’re being honest about it.’

‘I didn’t go everywhere with my father, but he did take me on a few of his journeys. The furthest I’ve ever been is Constantinople... My father was sent to speak with the King of Jerusalem who met him there. It was the grandest and largest city I’ve ever seen. More people than you could even imagine.’

‘Bigger than London?’

‘I’ve not been to London, but I imagine so. The King of Jerusalem said that _hundreds of thousands_ , perhaps, _millions_ , of people lived in the city.’

Armie’s mouth dropped open, ‘That is is truly impressive. I can’t begin to fathom that many people in one place… Hold on; you said the King of Jerusalem? I thought Jerusalem was currently held by the Saracens?’

‘It is,’ he said with another shrug, ‘But the title still exists, and the King had… and still has, many designs to take the kingdom back. At the time that my father and I travelled there he was vying for the support of the French king.’

‘Oh…. That must have taken a long time to get there and back? It can’t have been an easy journey...?’

He nodded, ‘We were away from home for a long time, but it wasn’t too bad. Two of my father’s knights were with us, and my tutor; so I kept up my studies and my practical skills, whilst also seeing more of the world. It is truly fascinating beyond the small little world that we take for granted.’

Armie made a noise in the back of his throat, ‘I am definitely envious of that. I wish I’d had the chance to do things like that. Instead I was born and bred to the army and to this land, nothing but studies and knightly training.’

He smiled softly, and reached up to stroke his fingers from his lover’s brow to his mouth, before tracing his lower lip with his thumb, ‘There is honour and excitement in that too.’

‘Hmmmm,’ Armie said, clearly not totally in agreeance, ‘You’ll just have to tell me all about the things you saw. Maybe I can picture it through what you say.’

Timothée grinned, ‘It’ll be like Scheherazade.’

‘Huh?’

‘It’s an Arabian folk story, about a prince and princess. In order to preserve her own life after they were married, she told him stories at night, one thousand and one of them.’

‘I guess,’ said Armie with a slight frown, ‘Except you’re not in danger of losing your life if you don’t tell me.’

‘True,’ he said with a small smile, ‘But I wouldn’t mind having a thousand and one nights to lie beside you and tell you stories.’

Armie smiled slowly, his sexy mouth tilting up at the ends as he thought about it; ‘A thousand and one nights? Sounds like a good place to start…’

Timothée leaned in and kissed him softly then, before drawing the fur cover over both of them and choosing the story he wished to tell.


	24. Intimacy and Injury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, 
> 
> Hope you're all keeping well! Thank you for reading and commenting, it means the absolute world to me. 
> 
> Stay safe, stay sane, and enjoy...
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Apologies if I haven't replied to your last comments yet, I'll get around to it ASAP. 
> 
> Love V  
> xxx

The hunt the next day was successful. They took two hinds, and a brace of pheasants. Henry had wanted to bring down a stag, but Armie had stopped him with a hand on his arm as the other man had raised his bow. When Henry had opened his mouth to protest, Armie had raised his fingers to his lips, so as not to startle the creature. Instead, they’d just watched, as this magnificent creature paraded in front of them on the brow of the hill; the six prongs on his antlers seemingly glinting in the weak sunlight as it broke through the wispy winter clouds. It was truly magnificent.

‘Now do you see?’ Armie asked Henry hoarsely, after the beast had disappeared down the other side and into the forest, leaving the group in a moment of breathless silence.

‘Yeah,’ said Henry quietly, ‘Yeah, I kind of do…’

And that was all that was said about the matter, as they went to check one of the last traps that Duncan had set up earlier that morning, finding a rabbit in it and nothing else.

‘To the wall for lunch?’ Duncan suggested.

They had ridden to the wall at first light, and then along it, in order to find the best hunting grounds at this particular time of year. Now they turned back along to where they had come from; hind tied across both the backs of Duncan and Henry’s horses. They wouldn’t be eating those today; nay, they needed to be transported somewhere for better preparing. Instead they would eat some of the more manageable meat that they had brought with them from the lodge.

They stopped in what looked like some kind of dilapidated building by the wall, a stone square structure of a moderate height. There were marks in the walls where beams had once been put in place to support the upper floors, but these had long since rotted away as they were exposed to the unkinder elements of the Northern English weather.

‘I suppose this was a sentry post of some sort,’ said Armie, as he ducked through what would have been the doorway, ‘For the soldiers posted on the wall to come in between stints standing looking out over the countryside yonder.’

‘It’s not very big,’ mused Timothée, looking around. The room couldn’t be more than five arms-breadths by the same again lengthways.

‘I don’t suppose it needed to be,’ said Henry after he had hitched his horse outside, ‘Just a place to shelter and get some food and sleep before heading back to the fort.’

‘There’s a fort near here?’ Timothée asked as Duncan got a fire going. He saw that there was a scorched area on the floor and some stones in a circular arrangement. Clearly someone else had thought to use this place as a stopping point for food and shelter, either out of desire or of necessity.

‘To the east and the south a bit, there is a cluster of ruins. It could belong to something,’ said Henry with a shrug, ‘But nobody’s ever really bothered to look, other than to pilfer some of the stone off the top.’

‘That sounds intriguing,’ he said.

‘There’s not really a lot to see,’ said Duncan, as the fire got going. Kitt arranged blankets from his saddlebags around the fire, so that they wouldn’t need to sit on the cold ground as they ate. Armie, meanwhile, had taken the meat and bread out of another bag, along with several flasks of small ale to be shared around.

‘Still,’ he said, with a shrug, ‘I should like to learn more about this strange country in which I am now present.’

‘Come… sit,’ said Armie, sitting down heavily on a blanket and motioning to the space beside him. As nonchalantly as possible, he sat down, being sure to leave a space between them. It was an effort in studied indifference, despite the fact he wanted nothing more than to press himself against the man next to him. Unfortunately, they could never do such thing except in the quiet hours of the night, when all the world was dark around them, apart from the light emanating from the candles or the fireplace in whosevers bedroom they might find themselves.

‘Here,’ said Duncan gruffly, handing him a strip of dried meat; pork he thought, as he took a bite from it. The rest of it was shared out between them and they happily ate in silence for a while, simply enjoying each other’s company and the freshness of the air and countryside around them.

‘We’ll eat better back at the lodge,’ said Armie almost apologetically to the group. There were shrugs of indifference and enjoyment nonetheless from the group.

‘It’s beautiful here,’ he said, looking out through the crumbling ruined walls to his left and to the mountains beyond, ‘But I’ve yet to find any coins or anything else for that matter.’

‘Not been looking hard enough, clearly,’ said Armie, ‘When we’ve finished, we can go treasure hunting.’

Timothée looked up at him to see his eyes sparkling with hidden amusement.

‘That sounds like a good idea,’ he said, his own eyes holding that hidden message reserved just for the man beside him.

After they finished eating, the sun was past its peak.

‘Wherever you’re going, don’t be too long,’ said Duncan, beginning to wrap up the blankets, ‘It’ll be getting dark soon; and I don’t really want to be riding back to the lodge in the dark.’

‘Yes sir,’ said Armie with a grin and bowing sarcastically in his direction. Duncan had the grace to look slightly cowed by Armie’s words, ‘We’ll be back before you know it.’

They ducked under the doorway and out of this part of the crumbling ruin.

The clouds were beginning to gather in the distance to mar the beautiful blue sky, but it would be several hours before the closed in, and it might be dark before then.

‘Let’s go this way,’ said Armie, mounting up on Helios, Timothée doing the same to his horse. They headed about half a mile along the wall to another sentry post; this one wasn’t any more substantial than the first – but it did extend past the other side of the wall, unlike the one they’d had lunch in.

‘This is where Ned and I found the coins,’ said Armie, reaching up and then pulling himself up onto the wall and gesturing to the other side.

Timothée looked up at him, stretching his hands up to try and follow Armie up onto the wall, but he could only just get his fingertips onto the stone.

‘You’re going to have to help me,’ he said, looking up at his lover with a grin on his face, ‘I’m not going to make it otherwise.’

‘Not strong enough?’ Armie teased from where he was looking down at him.

‘We’re not all freakishly tall,’ he said, eyes glinting.

Armie grinned and crouched to hold out his arm so he could pull Timothée up onto the wall beside him.

‘It’s not as high on the other side,’ Armie said as he heaved him up, ‘You should be able to jump down.’

‘Odd,’ Timothée said, ‘I wonder why it’s not as far on the other side?’

‘I don’t really know, but the wind is usually coming from the North so maybe… I don’t know, it’s a bit stupid, but maybe over the centuries the wind moves the earth so it’s higher on that side?’

Timothée looked at him and then shrugged, ‘Sounds plausible. And I don’t have a better explanation.’

Avoiding a bit of the wall that looked as if it would crumble under any particular pressure; he found a spot to let himself down, and jumped, his boots hitting the ground with a thud. In this ruin there was more obvious rooms divided by what was left of the stone.

‘This one must be one of the bigger sentry posts,’ he said looking around, as Armie ducked under what remained of the lintel and joined him.

‘I think so,’ said Armie, looking around and shrugging, ‘I remember my tutor saying that he thought there were bigger ones every one and a half leagues or so on the wall, other smaller ones in between.’

Timothée wandered over to the remains of what had either been a store cupboard or a latrine; either way it was very small room, and only one person would have been able to be in it at a time.

‘Seems like a cold place to have made a life.’

‘Apparently they wore very long socks,’ said Armie with a grin.

Timothée looked at him with a snort, ‘Are you making fun of me? That can’t be true!’

‘It is!’ insisted Armie, ‘Livy talks about it in one of his essays; the different uniforms of the army divisions in different parts of the empire. Apparently, this far north they wore very long woollen socks under their pteruges to keep their legs warm.’

‘Why didn’t they just wear breeches?’

‘Didn’t think about that, I guess,’ said Armie with a shrug.

‘I could imagine having any part of my legs bare when that wind blows from the north,’ said Timothée with an affected shudder, ‘It would be _freezing_.’

‘Oh I don’t know,’ said Armie with a cat like grin coming a little closer, ‘Wearing only socks under a skirt could be useful.’

‘And how might that be?’ he said with a matching grin, looking up at him. He knew this tone of voice from the other man, and he was immediately responsive to it. 

‘Well, whereas when _I_ run my hand up your thighs, I’m met with only cloth; if you weren’t wearing breeks, and instead there was just skin… well, it would be just that. Just skin.’

‘Sounds intriguing,’ he said, his breath hitching as Armie’s hands followed the path he had just described, up his thighs, his fingertips _just_ ghosting over the beginnings of the bulge at the front of his breeches, as his cock began to take interest in the proceedings, ‘And then what would they do?’

Armie took half a step back and untucked his cloak from the brooches that kept it pinned up on his shoulders, ‘Take this.’

‘Huh?’ Timothée’s brain was slightly fogged due to the impending possibility of some sort of sex, and it took him a moment to register what Armie had said.

‘The edges of my cloak,’ said Armie, passing it to him, ‘Tuck it around us.’

Timothée did as he was bid, creating a cocoon around them both with the material, trapping the edges between his back and the wall. Suddenly the world was reduced down to just the two of them, wrapped in this material; especially as Armie took another half a step forward, closing down the rest of the space between them. It was just Armie’s body in front of him, and the wall behind, and nothing else in the world. Armie went back to what he was doing before he stepped back to free his cloak, freeing Timothée’s prick from his breeches, before pushing his thigh in between his legs so he could rut against it, moaning at the sensation of his prick against the soft cloth.

‘You too,’ he huffed out as he rocked forward, fumbling between them in the dark warmth created by the cloak, to free Armie’s cock and stroking him to full hardness, even though he was pretty much there already. Armie’s breath was hot on his ear, as he bit on his earlobe and moaned out his delight as their cocks rubbed together, rutting, grinding, and panting as they went.

‘Ohhhh god,’ Timothée moaned at the sensation, his cock weeping freely. He reached for Armie’s hip, and his bicep, pulling him as close as physical possible, thrusting his hips against Armie, his head dropping down onto his shoulder at the sensation.

‘Ffffuck,’ Armie mumbled, his mouth still close to his ear, his voice was so quiet in the moan, he only just heard it.

Other than actually fucking Armie, this was the closest he could get to his lover. He felt like he was drawing the other man into him; the warmth of his body, the heat of his breath. He wanted him so much, and even when they were rocking and rubbing towards their zenith, he felt like he wanted more. It just felt so good. He kissed the other man then, long and slow, tasting his deliciously sensuous mouth, wanting to hold onto this moment for a long as possible, even though he could feel himself approaching his release.

‘Ohhhhhh,’ he moaned, ‘I’m going to cum, fuck.’

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ Armie mumbled, biting the side of his neck as he came first; his hips thrusting forward in his moment of pleasure. Watching the other man come apart this close to him, his mouth open in ecstasy, was enough to push him over the edge as well. His whole body tightened as his pelvis clenched and his eyes slammed shut, the feeling rolling over him in waves, his fingers tight against the muscles in Armie’s back, surely leaving marks, even through the layers of clothing.

They stood for several minutes afterwards, just getting their breath back before Armie stepped back slightly, immediately exposing them to a little bit of the chill breeze that was beginning to blow. He shivered slightly, quickly righting his clothes, and wiping off the residue of their lovemaking with the edge of his cloak.

‘It seems like I can’t be near you and not want to touch you,’ said Armie, his voice lilting in amusement as he pulled his cloak free and hitching it back into the brooches from which he had unclasped it. Timothée couldn’t help but let a little bubble of happiness escape from him in the form of a chuckle.

‘Me too,’ he said, ‘I want to touch you, and I have to hold myself back from doing it where someone else can see.’

‘Does that make it more special at night then?’ said Armie softly, ‘I know it’s not perfect, but maybe the nights we spend together can be all the more special, because they’re the times we can truly be who we are… with each other.’

He stepped forward a second after hearing Armie say this, and kissed him softly, nibbling softly on his bottom lip. He stepped back and nodded, ‘As long as we can keep doing _that_ … I’m onboard.’

Armie chuckled, ‘Come on then; we better get back, otherwise the others might wonder where we’ve got to do and whether we’ve been attacked by a band of reivers.’

‘Reivers?’

‘The main problem we have with the Scots; roaming bands that steal cattle and other livestock.’

‘Oh, I think I heard Henry mention that before the raid on Lanercost – something about how he’d rather be dealing with reivers…’

‘Yes, Henry often goes out on patrol with a group; so he often gets into confrontations with bands of them,’ said Armie as they hauled themselves back up onto the wall. To get down the other side they had to lower themselves a bit first, and then jump, so as not to actually injure themselves from the impact of jumping from higher up. Helios, who was tied up nearby, jumped at the sound of Armie’s boots hitting the mud, and gave a little whicker of annoyance.

‘Sorry boy,’ said Armie reaching out to stroke his neck and soothe the horse, who after a moment or two seemed sufficiently mollified.

‘We’ll be losing the light in an hour or two,’ he said glancing up at the sky, ‘Best get back, otherwise Duncan will have something to say about it.’

Armie chuckled and mounted up, ‘Come on then. I want to get back to the lodge in time to roast those pheasants we caught today; a feast awaits!’

**

The next few days were the best that Timothée had had since he had been in the north; nights spent in Armie’s bed in every conceivable position as the bigger man made full use of the lanolin and fucked him in as many ways as possible, bringing them both pleasure that he had only previously dreamed of; and the days were spent out in the wilds, hunting, or simply riding out with the other men and the dogs. They enjoyed each other’s company it seemed, and had a couple more successful hunts to show for it.

On the morning that they decided to leave, they secured the carcasses they hadn’t butchered themselves to their horses (Timothée strapped Henri up from the start this time), and despite a minor shifting as the horse got used to the new weight, they didn’t seem to have a problem. The ride back to the castle would be more direct than the one they had taken to come out here, but they weren’t expected back until early afternoon, so it wasn’t as if they were in particular hurry.

The ride passed uneventfully, and thankfully it didn’t rain. Timothée was joking with Kitt as they passed under the portcullis to the castle courtyard, just as the one o’ clock bell was ringing out from the chapel. Kitt had relaxed a lot in the few days since they had been gone, and seemed less averse to sharing a joke and informal chatter with the rest of them. Now they were laughing at the extremely grumpy look on Henri’s face after being tethered up at the front of Timothée’s saddle for the better part of three hours. He’d be let down momentarily, however, so he’d be much happier soon.

He dismounted by the stables, let Henri free with a wriggle and leap (he immediately bounded off to relieve himself), and handed the bridle to Kitt as he took his pack off the horses back.

‘What shall we do with the hunt, my lord?’ he called over to Armie, who jumped at the use of the honorific. Timothée just shrugged as if to say; now they were back at the keep, and in public, he’d better use it.

‘I’ll get two boys to take it all down to the kitchen to be cleaned and prepared,’ said Armie, ‘They can -,’

He was cut off by Jennings striding across the court yard and calling out to him, ‘My Lord!’

There was a tone of urgency in the steward’s voice, so Armie turned towards him instantly, a frown on his face, ‘What’s wrong Jennings?’

‘Something important has occurred whilst you’ve been away; can we talk somewhere privately?’

Armie’s frown deepened, but he nodded, ‘Of course, lead the way. I’ll see you later Henry, Timothée.’

Timothée nodded and waved his hand, wondering what on earth the steward could have to discuss with Armie that was so urgent. Clearly it wasn’t for his ears, whatever it was. He shrugged to himself, and headed up the stairs into the keep, meaning to take his pack up to his chambers.

He passed Matthew on the way up the stone steps, lounging against the post with a grin on his face; ‘Welcome back Frenchman.’

Timothée found this extremely odd, as this was the least aggressive thing that Matthews had ever said to him. He had been expecting him to spit at his feet and give him a shove as he passed. Maybe the squire had decided to be kinder to him moving forward, perhaps deciding that Armie was likely to look better upon him if he wasn’t a bastard to everyone around him. He nodded to Matthews, slightly too taken aback to actually respond in kind.

He nodded to the guard on duty as he headed into the private quarters; Henri had rejoined him by this point, and tailed him happily up the winding stairs to the top floor of the keep.

After he had put away his few things and instructed the boy who helped him to find more wood for his fireplace, as the stockpile was getting rather low, he decided he would write a letter to his sister. It had been a long while since he’d written to her, and he knew that Armie didn’t mind if he did so.

He was about halfway through writing the letter, dipping his quill in the ink pot sitting on the small desk against the wall in his room, when the door burst open with a loud crash as it hit the opposite wall. He immediately leapt to his feet, upending the ink pot over everything he’d already written as he went to grab his knife from his belt; casting ink all over the parchment. He lowered his knife slightly when he saw it was Robertson; Armie’s captain of the guard, stood in the doorway, along with two other soldiers he didn’t recognise. His heart dropped to somewhere deep in his stomach.

‘Can I help?’ he asked in French, trying not to let any nerves show in his voice. Henri was growling at the interlopers, but Timothée shushed him with a gesture and stroke under his ears.

‘Timothée Chalamet-Aubert, you’re under arrest for attempted sedition and treason. You will be taken into custody, as per the orders of the lord of the keep.’

Timothée reeled back as if he had been struck; each of Robertson’s words hitting him in quick succession. Sedition? Treason? Armie had ordered this?

His knife clattered to the ground, as he knew there was no use resisting against three of them with what could be described as a glorified eating implement.

‘Wise choice,’ Robertson said, stepping up, pulling his hands in front of him and tying them with a rope.

‘Is that really necessary?’ he asked, but let him do it anyway, ‘I’m not going to try and flee.’

Robertson shrugged, finished what he was doing and tugged him out of the room, the other two soldiers falling into step behind him. They headed down through the keep, as Timothée tried to ignore the stares and whispers of everyone they passed on the way. There was one person he couldn’t ignore, however; standing by the door to the Great Hall was Matthews, and even bigger grin on his face than earlier. He didn’t move as Timothée passed, but continued to leer. Timothée felt as if he’d swallowed a lump of ice. A few moments later and this solidified into a freezing feeling throughout his entire body as a door to one of the cells was opened and he was pushed inside. His hands were undone, Robertson left, the door clanged shut and the key turned.

He was left alone.


End file.
